My Abuse Hangover

There's a phrase I use quite a bit - I've even used it in this blog, over the years - and today, I want to explain a bit more about what it means.  That phrase is "abuse hangover."

Emotional abuse is in the spotlight at the moment, thanks to the current storyline in BBC Radio 4's The Archers.  If you're unfamiliar with The Archers, or don't know what storyline I'm talking about, you can read about it here.

I've talked frequently and openly about my own experience of an emotionally abusive relationship, right here on this very blog.  Emotional abuse and me was one of my first big pieces about what I went through, but I've spoken about it in various other posts and I've even written a semi-autobiographical novel about emotional and psychological abuse (which has had 5* reviews, so please do check it out).

What not many people talk about, however, is what happens months and even years after you leave an abusive relationship and you piece your life back together.  Does what you experienced just disappear over time, leaving no trace?  Do you pop right back to being the person you were before you were abused, or are you changed forever?  Obviously, the experience will be different for everyone.  In the years since I left my abuser, I've spoken to many other survivors and everyone's case is unique.  So, the reason I'm writing this isn't to provide a sweeping reference that covers absolutely every person who has experienced abuse.  It's just not possible to do that.  The reason I'm writing this is to talk about my own "abuse hangover" - what it means for me and what it could mean for other people.

Probably not what you think, Mr Schneebly.

For me, "abuse hangover" is the catch-all term for the little ways in which I'm permanently changed, as a result of what I experienced.  Because no, I'm not the same person I was before I met my ex.  But no, that's not necessarily a bad thing.  First and foremost, let me just say that whilst we generally accept that having a hangover is a negative situation, when I use the word in this context, I'm meaning something less like feeling sick and wishing your brain would stop threatening to explode, and more like "leftovers."  But "abuse leftovers" sounds like the worst dinner in the freaking world, so "abuse hangover" it is...

Like I said, my "hangover" won't necessarily be the same as someone else's.  But by sharing mine, I hope that people will realise that sometimes, a person's past really does affect their present - and future - in strange little ways that you might never have guessed.  It's not an excuse, should that person start behaving in a lousy way, but it can stand as an explanation for some of the things a person does that previously seemed baffling.

So, what weird things make up my "hangover?"

1. I AM OBSESSED WITH THE IDEA THAT MY FEET ARE CONSTANTLY SMELLY AND DISGUSTING.

You'll be hard pressed to find a more wonderful gif, today.

Okay, Trigger warning time.  I'm about to tell you guys a true story and it's not a nice one, so if you're likely to be upset by reading about an abusive dude being pretty appallingly horrible to me, please skip ahead.  I'll write the story in red, so you can see where it ends and it's safe to start reading again:

So, towards the end of my relationship with my abuser, he kind of stopped trying to hide his vile streak and almost revelled in what he could get away with.  One particular day, in the height of Summer, I arrived at his house, wearing sandals and a skirt.  We went up to his room and I kicked off my shoes and sat on his bed.  He stared at me with the kind of look I had long realised wasn't going to lead to anything good, then said: "Your feet smell disgusting."  Now, like I said, it was a very hot day and I'd driven for an hour to get to him, so you know what?  They probably did.  So, I apologised and put my feet on the floor.  That wasn't enough for him, though.  He proceeded to go into a full-on rant about how utterly revolting my feet were, asking me over and over whether I had even bothered to wash, that morning.  No matter how many times I told him that of course I had, he just kept telling me that I was dirty and disgusting.  Then, something in his tone changed.  He looked me straight in the eye and told me to go and wash my feet.  I laughed - probably out of shock and embarrasment - and he raised his voice just enough to be mildly threatening and repeated the order.  Now, usually I did whatever he said, because I'd long since learned that arguing with him got me nowhere.  But I was upset and angry that he was making such a big deal about something I couldn't really help (and they didn't smell anywhere near as bad as he was making out), so I refused.  He grabbed me by the arm, marched me down the corridor to the bathroom, turned the shower on and then stood with his back to the door, blocking my escape.  "Wash.  Your.  Feet."  I did what I was told, all the while feeling utterly humiliated, whilst he watched and laughed.  Only when he was satisfied that I was "clean," was I allowed out of the bathroom and back into his room, again.

I left my abuser five years ago, this Summer.  But, to this day, I am completely and utterly paranoid about my feet.  I will apologise in advance, if I take my shoes off in any situation, even though 99% of the time, my feet don't smell (or if they do, they're no worse than anyone else's).  I live in genuine fear of hot weather making them stinky and I'm constantly scared that someone will comment on it  and I'll be humiliated all over again.  I've been known to visit friends in the Summer and I'll say I'm going to the toilet, but will actually scrub my feet with soap, in the desperate hope that nobody will be disgusted by them.  I am genuinely convinced that a small part of my intense love for Irregular Choice shoes, is actually down to the fact that I'm subconsciously convinced that if my feet look amazing, people are less likely to comment on what they smell like.  Or perhaps I'm trying to reclaim my feet as things to be proud of, rather than ashamed of.  Who knows.  All I do know, is that this isn't something that hasn't really ever gone away.  Nearly five years on and I'm still terrified of being barefoot around people, in case the same thing ever happens again.

2. I'M NOT ENTIRELY CONVINCED THAT ALL MALE-FEMALE FRIENDS AREN'T SECRETLY SLEEPING TOGETHER.

REALLY?!

So, in case the above foot-washing story didn't let you know what kind of a charming, delightful fellow my ex was, let me fill you in a little further.  He basically believed that every woman was, essentially, a "goal."  

Thanks to the fact that he'd thoroughly manipulated and confused me with for more than a year and a half, by swinging from "we're just friends who happen to sleep together," to "I love you, I'll always be with you," by the time I left, I was utterly confused as to what the heck had happened.  What had we even been to each other?!  Consequently, for a long time, I joined that awful group of people who believe that men and women can't be friends without sex getting in the way.  Now, I have male friends who I've literally never been sexually interested in and who have never been sexually interested in me, so I know that that argument is utter rubbish.  But, thanks to having had it drummed into me so often that I was just my ex's "friend," I wasn't sure I could believe my own experience, anymore.  Add to that the fact that my ex was also sleeping with several other "friends," during the course of our relationship, and it might become clear why seeing a guy and girl hanging out immediately made me think "THEY'RE DOING IT."

Now, several years after walking away, I'm back firmly in the "of course men and women can be 'just friends'" camp, but there's an irritating caveat: if I like a guy and he has female friends, my brain is going to torture me with the idea that he's sleeping with literally all of them.  

Last year, I was head over heels for this guy who, briefly, I thought might have a mutual crush on me.  One evening, we were out for drinks (not technically together, but both at the same place and chatting away by the bar), when a girl came over to say hi to him.  She gave him a hug and kissed his cheek.  And I swear to God, I nearly threw up.  Because my brain immediately started needling me: "Why are you even bothering to talk to him?  He's clearly sleeping with her, you moron!"  

I'm not really a clingy person.  I believe that having friends and interests outside of a relationship is healthy and right.  When I'm eventually in a relationship again, if my boyfriend happens to have female friends that he hangs out with, I can say with my hand on my heart that I know that I won't badger him about it, or accuse him of doing anything, because I'm just not that sort of person.  Trust is vital in a relationship and I wouldn't be with anyone I didn't trust.  But whilst I'm single, I kind of get the feeling that any time I see a guy I like, chatting to a girl, I'm just going to assume that they're sleeping together and it's going to stop me from being brave enough to be flirty or from trying to make it obvious that I like him in any way.  It's like my brain's way of reminding me that my ex was sleeping with pretty much every female friend he ever mentioned.  Thanks for that, brain.

3. I HAVE AN OBSESSION WITH DEFENDING MYSELF AND OTHERS AND MAINTAINING SOME KIND OF MORAL JUSTICE.

Like some sort of caped crusader...

Basically, this isn't just an "abuse hangover."  It's also a reaction to being bullied really badly (like... REALLY badly) at secondary school.

When you're bullied, you're often told to "ignore them and they'll get bored."  The fact is, that doesn't work.  At all.  If you ignore a bully, all they learn from it is that you won't fight back, so you're a convenient target to continue picking on.  I'm not advocating smacking a bully around the face with your school bag or anything, but sitting in silence and willing them to go away isn't going to do the trick, either.

Fast forward to my relationship with my abuser and he had me so manipulated that I was convinced that he "couldn't help" the way he was treating me.  The poor thing had been abused as a child and didn't know any better.  He was scared, because nobody had ever shown him love before and he just didn't know how to react to it.  He needed me to put up, shut up and support him.

I'm using this gif a LOT lately, but that's because it's SO APPROPRIATE.

Cut to the day I finally snapped and walked away from him, and my ex said something that has haunted me ever since: "I know exactly how I've treated you and I don't feel guilty, because you let me do it."

Of course, what I took from that was that I had been to "blame" for what had happened to me.  I let him abuse me.  And all because I was trying to quietly support him, rather than judge him, which was the very thing he'd told me over and over again that he needed.

Counselling with an amazing abuse charity helped me to realise that I wasn't to blame and that the way he treated me was a choice he made, rather than something he couldn't help.  But I've never quite been able to shake off the belief that my silence worsened the situation - both with my school bullies and my abusive ex.

And that's why these days, I will leap to my own defence in a heartbeat.  I will leap to the defence of others in a heartbeat.  I am physically unable to stop myself from responding to someone who has wronged me, or whose behaviour has hurt or upset me or another person.  If you snap at me without reason, I will call you on it.  If you say something about me that isn't true, I will demand that you listen to the facts before spouting rubbish.  If you're picking on someone else, I am going to come to their defence.

In a way, this is the "hangover" I'm almost glad I have.  Yes, in the first few years after I left my ex, it made me slightly too reactionary.  I would defend myself too vocally, when it wasn't entirely necessary.  I was desperate not to be taken advantage of, or be seen as "weak" (one of my ex's favourite words to sling at me).  But, nowadays, I've learned to judge situations better.  I know when to walk away from an argument and I know when I've simply taken something harmless the wrong way (and therefore don't need to say anything).  These days, I'm not going to jump down your throat over nothing, but I'm also not going to meekly sit back, whilst you insult me, shout at someone I love, or treat another person badly.  I'm going to stand up for myself.  I'm going to stand up for my loved ones.  I'm going to go to bat for someone I've never even met before, who's being trolled online.  Why?  Because I'm determined never to be mistreated ever again.  I'm determined to stop anyone else ever being mistreated.  If I was a superhero, I'd be Anti-Abuse Girl.  Although that's a rubbish title, pretend I didn't say that...

Maybe I'll form a club.

I'm not trying to make out that I go around, starting arguments for the sake of proving a point.  Nope, nope, big bag of nope.  I actually don't like arguments; too often, they descend into downright nastiness.  So, where there's a person trying to start one, you'll find me ending it.

That's not to say that I'm big and brave about it.  Most of the time, if I'm standing up to someone mean, I'm like a swan - on the surface, I'm gliding to victory, but underneath, my legs are thrashing wildly.

Or, to put it another way, I'm Rachel from Friends:

My words are strong, but my hands are all shaky.

Still, I have a kind of "feel the fear and do it anyway," attitude when it comes to vocally sticking up for what's right.

Recently, I was told by someone: "Nobody ever needs to come to your defence, because you do such an incredible of job of politely but firmly defending yourself, when necessary."  For a girl who spent her entire adolescence silently pretending that she couldn't hear the vile things bullies were yelling at her, and who rarely ever defended herself when the man she loved took it upon himself to verbally abuse her, I took that as a pretty damn good compliment.

Basically, I am "very sweet" (another recent compliment, this time from my best friend), kind and thoughtful.  But I'm a terrier.  Pet me and I'll roll over and show you my tummy.  But you try to start on me - or anyone I love - and I'll bite you in the most polite, grammatically correct manner you've ever been bitten.

4. I RECOGNISE ABUSE AND I WILL CALL IT OUT WHEN I SEE IT.

And I'm totally a nun, too, did I mention that?

Not all "hangovers" are bad and this is a classic example of a good one (as is the one above, really - defending yourself and the people you love is hardly a bad thing, after all).  In fact, last month, I wrote about this particular "hangover" and called it my "super power."  So, I won't go into loads of detail again, because regular readers know what I'm going to say, already.  Suffice to say that if you're capable of recognising when someone is being manipulative, controlling or trying to gaslight you, it becomes much easier to cut ties, or to begin to distance yourself from them.  At the very least, if you recognise that someone is displaying abusive behaviour, you can consider yourself forewarned and can work out a way of dealing with that person, if they're someone you can't avoid.  Knowing what the red flags of abuse are is genuinely life-saving knowledge, so having it is something to be proud of and to hold onto.

5. I WILL NOT TOLERATE MANIPULATIVE PEOPLE.

Again, this is largely a positive hangover, although it makes me super duper sensitive to this stuff.  Basically, it goes hand-in-hand with the point above.  If you so much as try to manipulate me, I can see it coming a mile off.  And it will make me want to smack you in the face with a wet fish.

There were many ways in which my ex abused me, but the key throughout the entire thing was manipulation.  It's why I am utterly disgusted by manipulative people now, because I know the enormous damage that their behaviour can cause.  

The trouble with manipulation is that it's - usually - subtle.  The whole point of it is that it messes with a person's mind, so that they make choices that they otherwise wouldn't make, or they start thinking about things that had never entered their head, before.  So, whilst I can see manipulative people as though they have a big, flashing sign above them, with "MANIPULATOR" written on it, other people might not be able to.  And that means that sometimes, I will take an instant dislike to someone, for reasons that others can't understand.

There are people in my life - not close, thank God, but in my life, just the same - who are vile, manipulative pieces of poo.  And there are other people in my life who think that those poo-folk are the best thing since sliced bread.  Unfortunately, that can lead to arguments, or accusations that I'm being oversensitive.  I've lost friends in the past, because I've been able to see through someone and they haven't.  And hey, interesting fact: I've been proved right, long after the friendship was dead in the water.

Please, just trust me on this.  I know manipulation when I see it.  If I tell you that someone is deliberately trying to wind you (or me) up, or seeking to cause trouble, give me the benefit of the doubt. 

And even if you don't want to believe that someone you like and trust might actually be a manipulative swine, accept that I see them as such and don't try to force me to make nice with them.  If I see even the slightest similarity between your friend and my ex, you can bet your ass that I'd rather stick my face in a wasp nest than spend any more time with that person than I absolutely have to.  

And I'm terrified of wasps.

6. I'M EVEN MORE SENSITIVE THAN I USED TO BE...

You and me both, Chan-Chan Man.

Look, I'm going to level with you: I'm going to be sensitive.  I'm going to bristle at odd things, worry about trivial matters and brood over stuff.  Not always.  Not even on a daily basis, but every now and then.  Because, once in a while, something will trigger a memory and I'll react to what you think is nothing in a way that you think is flipping weird.

Just please talk to me, when I do that.  Ask me what's up.  Because - as strange as this sounds - I might not even realise why I've reacted oddly, until I'm forced to think about it and I remember something from my relationship that I've buried nice and deep in my subconscious.  Something which has been nudged awake by a seemingly trivial word or action.

I'm 99.9% over what I went through (I don't really think you're ever 100% over something like that; I think you carry a small part of it with you forever, because as I said earlier, abuse is fairly life-changing).  But that doesn't mean that I won't sometimes want to talk about something that I went through.  And when I do that, I might cry.  That's okay.  If you're there, just listen and give me a cuddle.  Reassure me that I'm doing really well.  Because I am.  Almost five years after walking away from abuse, I know how it's changed me.  I know what most of my biggest triggers are.  I know how to look after myself.  But that doesn't mean that I don't need a hug and some reassurance, now and then.

And if you can organise me a cuddle from this guy, PLEASE DO.

If you know someone who has experienced abuse, their "hangover" might be completely different to mine.  But they probably have one, even if they've never stopped to work out what it is.  The best advice I could give anyone reading this, who knows or loves someone who lived through abuse in their past, is to never expect them not to be coloured by their experience.  Let them talk about it when they need to, but don't push them to, if they're not ready.  Let them figure out how their experience changed them, in their own time and be there to support them when they do.

Oh, and let them have a nice long lie in.  It is a hangover, after all.

Let Me Tell You About My Super Power...

SUPER EM!  My powers don't extend to photo manipulation, sadly.

I've been using a phrase for a really long time and it's only recently that I've realised that it's the wrong one.

Four and a half years ago, I found the strength to walk away from an abusive relationship.  I don't use the term "found the strength" lightly, because believe me, walking away and putting myself back together again was the hardest thing I have ever done.

Since then, as with most survivors, I've learnt that some things trigger memories of what I experienced and I will therefore be more sensitive to them.  Generally, once you know what your triggers are, you can either avoid them, or work on ways to protect yourself, should you encounter them.  Another thing you learn, as you're rebuilding yourself, is that certain things you say and do are likely to be influenced by what you went through.  I might react strangely to something that seems harmless and I have to be able to recognise that and understand where my reaction comes from.  I call those reactions and triggers my "abuse hangover."

"Abuse hangover" is, for me at least, a good umbrella term for all those funny little reactions I have to what seem like minor issues, or for the (thankfully ever-decreasing) list of things that can be triggering.  But there's one thing that shouldn't be lumped into that catch-all term and that is my ability to spot abusive tendencies in people.

In the first months and even years after I walked away, got help and put myself back together again, I  would sometimes see someone behaving in a snide, manipulative manner and feel that I had to have a bit of a word with myself before I inwardly judged them for it.  "Oh, Emma.  It's your 'abuse hangover' talking," I'd tell myself.  And sometimes, it really was just that; the person was having an off day, or I was only seeing half of the situation and it wasn't fair to make an assumption without all of the facts.  It's true to say that when you're fresh out of an abusive situation, you're often highly attuned to the signs you need to be looking out for, because even if you're receiving counselling, or support from an abuse charity (as I was), you're often still in that place where you can't believe you missed all the red flags when they were dangled right in front of your nose for so long.  Your senses are heightened and any behaviour that you perceive as bad is going to be magnified in your mind.

But there comes a point where it's not just the "hangover" from what you experienced that's colouring your judgement.  There comes a point - perhaps, as in my case, long after you've finished having support and you've left the abuse well behind in your past - when you realise that recognising abusive behaviour when you see it isn't a "hangover."  It's a gift.  More than that, it's a freaking SUPER POWER.

Being able to spot when a person is being manipulative, coercive, controlling or purposefully intimidating is a skill that, in a perfect world, we would all have.  If we did, perhaps abuse would happen far less.  Sadly, the fact is that abusers are clever.  Manipulative people know which strings to pull, to ensure they remain sympathetic and blameless.  Coercive people know how to make you feel as though you made the choice that they wanted you to make.  Control can be so subtle that you don't even realise you're being controlled until it's much too late.

People often pride themselves on believing that abuse - in any form - could never happen to them, but the fact is that abuse is insidious and we often don't even realise that it's happening to us.  I certainly didn't.  

But now, four and a half years after I left my abuser, I've put myself back together, learnt a whole heap about abuse, moved forwards with my life and, crucially, I know the signs, now.  I'd never be arrogant or foolish enough to suggest that I could never possibly succumb to any form of abuse again; as I said earlier, abusers are clever and manipulative.  But it would be harder.  These days, I recognise when someone is trying to manipulate me or others.  I can tell when someone is behaving in a coercive manner.  I know when someone is gaslighting.

Those are skills to be proud of.  They were hard "won" and they will protect me as I continue to move forward through life.  That's why I refuse to call them a "hangover," anymore.  They're my super powers and I'm lucky to have them, even if I did come by them in a particularly awful manner.

Abusive people: I SEE YOU.

Now, I don't claim to have all the answers.  Being able to tell when someone has abusive tendencies is one thing, but knowing how to deal with the situation (if avoiding that person forevermore isn't an option) is a puzzle I have yet to solve.  Knowing what your triggers are is a good starting point and being able to have coping methods in place is always wise.  Even if you simply go to your metaphorical "happy place" if you encounter an abusive person, that's a helpful step towards not letting them get under your skin.  Remember you're free, now.  That ability to spot abusive behaviour in the first place is testament to what you went through to get to where you are, today.  So, there's no shame in going to your mental happy place, if you can't avoid an abusive person.

For the record, my happy place looks like this:

Oh, so happy.  So very, very happy.

In summary, there's absolutely no way I intend to write off my ability to spot abusive behaviour in a person as a mere "hangover" from what I experienced.  It's a skill.  It's a gift.  It's a super power.  

If anyone needs me, I'll be over here, wearing my pants over my jeans.

What a novel blog post...

I would apologise for the title of this post, except... I'm not sorry; we all know I can't resist a pun.

Anyway, this post is essentially something of a celebration.  To explain what we're celebrating, I'll tell you a story...

Back in 2012, I was recovering from an abusive relationship that had threatened to completely destroy my life.  I'd been in a really bad place in the first few months since leaving, but, as 2011 gave way to 2012, I was starting to turn a corner.  I began to have counselling and my counsellor eventually suggested I contacted a charity called Women's Rape And Sexual Abuse Centre (or WRSAC for short).  I was massively hesitant about calling them.  I hadn't ever been raped and I felt like a fraud; I was still in a place where I didn't fully believe that what had happened to me had even been abuse.  But I called them.  And making that call changed - possibly even saved - my life.

Unfortunately, it was also during that time that lots of people I knew started banging on about a book called Fifty Shades of Grey.  They kept saying how "hot" it was.  How "romantic" they found it.  How every woman should have a man like Christian Grey in their life, if only they could be so "lucky."

I told my mum that I was going to have to read this fantastic book and bless her heart, she came back from a trip to the supermarket with a copy for me.  To this day, I feel a sense of genuine guilt that the book was a present from the person I love most in the world, because reading it... Well, reading it was akin to being smacked over the head with the relationship I was literally just beginning to get over.

It felt like I was being told I should be grateful to have been with someone so wonderful.  It felt like I was being told that I just wasn't perfect enough to "cure" my abuser with my amazing love, the way that we're supposed to believe that Ana cures Christian (which is bullshit on so many levels).  It was as though EL James had taken my experiences of abuse and rewritten them as a love story.  I felt sick.  And EL's silencing of abuse survivors and charities who tried voicing their concerns - not to mention the nastiness doled out from legions of Fifty Shades fans to anyone who dared to criticise the trilogy (and yes, I've read all three books) - only worsened that sick sensation in my belly.

And yep, I got my "angry writer" hat on and wrote to the press about it.

Then, one Summer evening, as I sat with my new support worker from WRSAC, I found myself blurting out: "Someone should write a book that tells the truth about men like Grey.  A book about a girl who meets this sexy, passionate guy with a dark, tragic past, but instead of romanticising abuse and making it sound as though you can "cure" it with love, the story should actually show emotional and psychological abuse for what it is."  And then, given how I was already making big, blurted statements, I made another: "Do you know what?  I'm going to bloody do it myself."

That's how Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections was born.  And it's why the very top person in the list of individual dedications at the start, is Chloe from WRSAC - my support worker.  The first person I ever told about this book, before I had even started writing it.

It took me well over a year to write the story.  Partly because I'm so used to writing children's fiction and partly because I was trying to juggle a day job, as well as other writing at the same time.  But mainly because the story is semi (and I emphasise that word) autobiographical.  Some of the cruel jibes Richard North (the Christian Grey of this tale) makes are words I've had spat at me from the person I loved.  Some of the situations are ones I found myself living in.  All of the pain that Jenna - my lead character - experiences is pain I went through myself.

Even the title comes from personal experience.  When I went to see my GP to ask for counselling - four months after I left my ex - I caught sight of myself in a mirror on his desk and I didn't recognise the reflection.  I thought of those funfair mirrors, where everything is distorted and you don't look like yourself.  Then, because I was in such emotional pain, I thought "no, those mirrors are fun.  This is more like when a mirror is cracked and your reflection is bent out of shape."

I revisited that experience not only to gain the title for this novel, but to try to explain the trauma that Jenna is going through, when she seeks help.  Towards the end of the novel, she explains to her own support worker:

“When I went to the doctors, I saw my reflection in a mirror and I looked so different.  It felt like I wasn’t looking at myself.  It was like... You know when you look into a mirror that has a crack in it and your reflection is distorted?  It was like that, only the mirror was fine.  It was me that was broken.”

- Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections, chapter 33

The subject matter is such that it's unlikely this book will ever be "beach-reading."  It's not always an easy read, but it's an important one.  And, I hope, a powerful and moving one.  If reading this book makes one person realise that abuse doesn't have to just mean hitting, or raping a person, then it's done its job.  

Yes, there are sex scenes.  Because abusers are charming, clever, passionate.  They don't waltz into rooms like pantomime baddies, accompanied by a thunder clap and eerie, dramatic laughter.  They could be the most gorgeous person you've ever laid eyes on.  They could be the funniest person you've ever met.  They could be the best sex you've ever had.  It's important to write that into a story 

like this, because too many people are convinced that they'd spot abuse in reality, when the truth is, even when you're going through it, you don't necessarily recognise it for what it is.  I didn't.

So, yes, this is a big leap from anything I've written, previously.  And no, this isn't a story to share with your little ones before bed (seriously, don't do that).  But it's an important book and it's one I hope you do share with your friends and loved ones.  Because when we educate ourselves on what abuse really is, we hopefully protect ourselves from it that little bit more.  And that can only be a good thing.

Once the story was written, I spent a long, long time editing it.  It was massively important to me to get it right.  Eventually, after two years of cutting bits, adding bits and deleting words here and there, I came to realise that I could carry on editing forever and never think it was perfect.  So, after one last edit, I decided it was what it needed to be: Real.

It's not my story.  It's heavily influenced, obviously, but I didn't want to just write an exact account of what had happened to me.  Instead, this book is half-autobiographical and half-fantasy.  I think it works better that way.  

I said at the start of this that this blog post is something of a celebration and I meant it.  We're celebrating the completion and publication of my first adult novel.  But much more importantly, we're celebrating the fact that I was free to write it in the first place.  

There are no "cracked mirrors" in my life, anymore.  When I look in the mirror these days, the woman staring back at me is one I recognise and am proud of.  

And I'm proud of the book she's written, too.

Purchase Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections as a paperback book. (readers in the USA can click here)

Purchase Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections for the Kindle.

Cooler Than The Red Dress - How a Trigger Helped Me Move On

In November 2009, I bought a dress.  It was a red, silk bandage dress and it was a bargain at just £29.99.  I bought it with the intention of making it that year's "Christmas Day Dress" (I always like to wear something nice on Christmas Day) and as soon as I got home, despite it having been raining the entire time I was out and my hair therefore resembling something from an 80s power ballad video, I took a few photos and put them up on Facebook.  

Seriously, the hair...

So, why am I harping on about this, six years later?  Well, Facebook has a feature called "On This Day."  For any given day, you can check and find out what you were up to in years gone by.  It's become something of a habit of mine to check this feature first thing in the morning and on the whole, I quite like it.  Sometimes, I see something funny and it makes me smile.  Sometimes, it brings back bittersweet memories.  But every now and then, I see something that I didn't want to be reminded of at all.

Yesterday, when I checked the "On This Day" feature, I saw the photos of me in my red dress.  I actually thought to myself: "Blimey, I haven't worn that for years.  I wonder if it even fits, anymore?!"  I then thought absolutely nothing more of it and got on with my day.

Today, when I checked the feature, I saw a public comment on my Facebook wall, written six years ago, by a man who, back then, I hadn't actually met.  It said simply: "I added you as a friend just so I could click the "like" button on your red dress album. :)"  Seems harmless enough, right?  Just a bloke I'd spoken to via a mutual friend's status updates, who'd cheekily added me as a friend himself, after seeing some photos he liked.  I took it as a compliment.  I thought he was gorgeous and I was pretty chuffed that he liked a few pictures of me, especially since all I could notice when I looked at them was the state of my windswept hair.  He jokingly added that he wasn't a stalker, honest.  I joked back that "it's not stalking, it's selective walking," thanked him for the compliment and deliberately put a kiss at the end of the message, because did I mention I thought he was gorgeous?!  We took the conversation to private messages and did some harmless flirting.

If it had ended there, seeing that perfectly innocent-seeming comment in my "memories for today" would have had no effect on me, whatsoever.  The trouble is, it didn't.  That "gorgeous" man whose cheeky message flattered me and made me laugh became, over the course of the next two years, the man who emotionally, psychologically and sexually abused me.  He's someone who, for very obvious reasons, is supposed to be blocked on Facebook.  Why he wasn't is beyond me (he is now), but I found simply being able to see his profile picture and his cover photo shockingly triggering, even though he looks different now to the way he looked six years ago.

People talk about being "triggered" online a fair bit, these days.  We put "trigger warnings" on posts about sensitive subjects and many of us - myself included - talk quite openly about what our "triggers" are.  But only if you've ever been triggered can you possibly know what it feels like.

I saw his photo and, when I hovered over his name (wondering why the hell it was clickable when he was supposed to be blocked), I saw his cover picture, too.  And instantly, I had to cup a hand to my mouth, as though I was about to be violently sick.  My breath started to come in short, shallow bursts.  I felt too hot and too cold at the same time.  My hands began shaking, until they shook so violently that my whole body joined in.  And that reaction happened years after the abuse did.  That reaction happened well after I've put my life back together and moved on from what he did to me.  That reaction had nothing to do with not being over it, or needing further counselling or anything like that.  It's just what my closest friends refer to as my "abuse hangover."  

In the four years since I left my abuser, I've actually walked past him in the street.  And bizarrely, it didn't trigger me in the same way that seeing that he was suddenly unblocked on Facebook did.  I think it's possibly because I've had a bit of a low week this week and Facebook has something of a part to play in that, so seeing him there was the cherry on the lousy cake.

The thing is, in true Carrie Bradshaw-esque style, once I'd stopped the shaking and the nausea and the general feeling of "ARGH!", I started thinking more and more about that red dress.

I suddenly realised that there's a subconscious reason I have barely worn that dress in the four years since I left my abuser.  And it's purely because it was that dress that brought him into my world - or at least, onto my Facebook friends list - in the first place.  I suppose, in a totally stupid way, I blamed it.  I associated it so much with him, that it became ugly; the very last thing I would want to wear.

It's no coincidence that, in the semi-autobiographical novel I'm in the process of preparing for publication, the character loosely based on me wears a red, silk bandage dress on the night she first meets a mysterious, dark-eyed stranger, who becomes her psychological tormentor for the rest of the book.  And yet, I never realised that when I was writing it.  I didn't think anything of it at all.  I just thought "I like red, so she can wear a red dress."  But somewhere, deep down in my brain, a voice was obviously trying to make a point.

It's weird when you realise stuff like this.  It's strange to suddenly understand why there's an item of clothing in your wardrobe that you feel you can't wear.  But it's a wonderful moment when you realise that you can and you bloody well will.  What happened to me came so close to breaking me.  But I stuck all those pieces back together again - with a little help - and I got stronger.  Stronger than I ever thought I was capable of being.

I met my abuser on New Year's Eve.  For the first two years after I walked away, New Year's Eve wasn't a nice night for me.  It brought back too many memories and made me think about stuff I had worked really hard to push out of my mind.

Then, in 2013, my friend Lizzie and I went away together for New Year.  We spent it at Butlin's, having fun and getting a bit drunk and dancing, singing and doing all the things you're supposed to do at New Year (minus kissing anyone at midnight, but you can't have everything...).  Ever since, I actually look forward to the date.  We have our routine of going there now and it's fun.  Getting to the point where I could enjoy New Year's Eve again was a big deal for me and it was a way of realising that I was over what happened and ready to move on.

This year, I'll be doing the same thing.  I'll be having fun, with one of my dearest friends and I will be wearing a smile.  

And I'll also be wearing a red, silk bandage dress.  Because, sometimes a trigger is more of a call to action.  It makes you realise that the bad things are in the past, however painful it is to remember them.  It forces you to realise how far you've come, even if it feels like a tiny thing can open up old wounds.  Seeing that supposedly harmless memory wasn't harmless for me, at all.  But I refuse to let the past spoil the present or the future.

I will be wearing that dress on New Year's Eve.  To make a point to myself.  To create new memories to replace the old.

Because I can.

Learning To Fly...

There are some things in life that we talk about as though they'll never happen to us.  For me, abuse was one of those things.  It was something I was trained to recognise, due to my day job.  Something I knew about, but would never have to personally experience.

Of course, then it happened to me.  And when you're in the midst of a relationship with someone you love, but who is harming you in any way, yet is also manipulating you to the point that you think you somehow deserve it, or they can't help their behaviour, it's very hard to call it what it is.  So you live in the situation, desperately hoping things will change.  The process of coming out of that situation is a long and difficult one, for all kinds of reasons, but when you do, you're almost immediately aware that leaving isn't the full-stop you longed for it to be.

Leaving a bad situation is often only the vital first step along the road to actually being free from it.

I often refer to the process of recovering from abuse as being like climbing a mountain.  The analogy I frequently make is that it can be a difficult journey, but you keep going, because you know the view from the top is going to be amazing.

I'm not quite sure when I reached the top.  Perhaps it was the day I had my last ever session with my amazing support worker, from the abuse charity who helped me put myself back together.  Or maybe it was the night I passed my abuser in the street and somehow managed to keep smiling and walking with confidence, despite the churning in my belly and the fear in my mind.  

The one thing I know, is that there came a point where I knew I had finished climbing the mountain (you always know that there'll be triggers and reminders that set you back a bit, but as time passes, they become less frequent and they don't drag you back like they used to).  What I didn't know, was what to do next.

You climb the metaphorical mountain and you survey the incredible view and do the whole "wow, I'm so proud of myself" bit, but then you're sort of... Well, just standing there.

You just stand theeeeeere!

It was only very recently that I realised what's supposed to happen next.  You don't walk down the other side of the mountain, nor are you supposed to set up camp at the top.  No.  You're supposed to fly.

There comes a point after all that hardship, after all that effort of putting your broken pieces back together again, where you realise you're as fixed as you'll ever be and you don't want to be shackled to the memory of what you went through.  Sure, you keep it with you forever, but it no longer defines you; it no longer weighs you down.  And once you have that realisation, the only way, as Yazz once sang, is up.

Whatever causes you to be ready to make that leap is a very individual thing.  It could be a brave decision on your part, that makes you realise you've regained your confidence.  It could be meeting someone new and realising you want to start again with them.  It could simply be a gut instinct that you wake up with one morning.  But whatever causes it, you've got to grab that feeling tight with both hands and never let it go - it's your cue to spread your wings.  

I realised this weekend that I was ready to move forwards with my life.  I suddenly knew - in an instant - that I was ready to go for it.  Before, there had always been a shadow on me; the ghostly hands of the past, tugging me backwards.  Somehow, recently, I was able to kick off those shackels and decide "no, enough is enough."

"I can't control my destiny," as Mimi once sang in Rent. but I can control whether I'm ready to let go of the past and start afresh.  And that time is now.

Emotional Abuse & Me

Me, back in early 2010.  That's a hood, it's honestly not my hair...

In March 2012, something life-changing happened to me.  That's not hyperbole.  It genuinely was a moment that changed my life and changed me forever.

I'd been having counselling for three or four months, following the end of a relationship.  A relationship in which I'd convinced myself I was a bad person.  A weak, sad, pathetic, desperate, clingy, needy woman, whom nobody could ever really love.  I'd been with someone who'd given me a sob story about how messed up he was and how he didn't really know how to behave in a relationship.  He'd told me he couldn't help his behaviour; he was scared by how close I'd gotten to him, so he reacted by pushing me away.  And I stuck around, wanting to help him, so surely I was sort of to blame for whatever he did to me after he'd warned me off?  As he himself put it, the last time I ever spoke to him face to face: "You knew what you were getting into.  I'm not to blame for any of this.  You are."

After I finally found the strength to walk away from him - nearly two years after we first met - I was convinced I'd "abandoned" him.  He used the word often enough to describe people no longer in his life, so I suppose it was drummed into my brain.  

I blamed myself.  I hated myself.  I found myself drinking a glass of wine most nights "just to take the edge off" the pain I was feeling.  I'd cry myself to sleep and hope I never woke up.  Every morning, when I did wake up, I'd find myself with a head full of dark questions: "Why am I so useless?"  "Why doesn't everyone just ditch me?  I'm not worth knowing."  "Why wasn't I strong enough to help him?"  "Why am I such a failure?"

When it all got too much, I eventually sought counselling.  I spent my sessions putting myself down, acting as prosecution, judge and jury at my own trial.  I found myself guilty.  My counsellor sat, listened, asked questions and made notes.  Then, in my penultimate session, my counsellor leaned forwards, with a pamphlet in her hands.  She spoke in a very soft, calm voice.  She said simply: "What you've been describing is abuse.  I think you need to call this number and speak to someone about what happened to you."

It was like a bucket of cold water to the face.  I sat and shivered in my seat.  I said just five words:

"But he never hit me."

So many of us, when we hear the word "abuse," think of two things: Physical violence and rape.  I'm quite ashamed to say that even as a childcare practitioner of 14 years' experience, trained in abuse and how to spot it, I didn't really realise that emotional abuse was something that happened between two adults.  

I went home with the abuse pamphlet in my trembling hands.  My counsellor had to be wrong.  I wasn't abused!  I was to blame; I had brought this all on myself.  Still, I knew my last counselling session would take place a fortnight later and I'd be expected to have rung the abuse charity whose pamphlet I'd been given.  My stomach churned at the thought.  How could I phone a helpline used by women who'd been beaten and raped?!  I checked the times of operation and decided to ring after the helpline was closed.  That way, I could tell my counsellor I'd tried to get in touch with the charity, without actually having to do it.  If they had an answerphone service, I'd leave a message and they'd probably listen to it, scoff at my time-wasting and never call me back.  Either way, I had a convenient excuse for not having to actually speak to someone who'd call me out on my stupidity.  I left a message that began with the words "I'm sorry, I'm wasting your time..."

A day or two later, the phone rang.  A very nice, very kind lady with a soft voice explained that she was calling from the abuse charity - did I have time to talk?  I thought I was going to be sick.  They were surely about to tell me off for attempting to waste their valuable services!  I don't think my voice has ever trembled so much in all my life.

And yet shockingly - to me, at least - the lady on the end of the phone didn't tell me off.  She never said I was wasting her time.  Instead, she explained what emotional and psychological abuse was and how difficult it is to spot when you're in it.  She told me - more than once in that first phone call - that it wasn't my fault and that it was okay to let go of the blame I'd been holding on to.  The blame that had been poisoning every aspect of my life.  I'd found myself guilty.  She said I was innocent.

Three months (and several phone calls) later, I began weekly sessions with a support worker.  Ten months after that, I was a completely changed person.

I was going through the night, dead to the world, without crying myself to sleep first.

I had no need whatsoever to "take the edge off" the pain.  The pain was gone.

I didn't hate myself.  I didn't blame myself.  I saw myself having a bright, positive future.  I saw myself as having survived.

Most importantly of all, I was able to use the word "abuse."  I finally realised that my counsellor had been right, on that Earth-shattering day.  The use of my ex's tragic past to explain his behaviour had been manipulation.  The suggestion that if I left, I'd be abandoning him, was coercion to make me stay.  The insistence that the relationship had to be on his terms, labelled as he saw fit, was control.  The digs about my weight... The comments about me being "desperate and clingy" when all I wanted was to be shown some affection...  The demands for sex as soon as I'd arrived to see him, yet the accusation of me being a "pathetic slut" if I tried to initiate it on my terms...  The times he'd throw something across the room and say I made him "violent..."  The time he forced me into the shower, blocking the bathroom door, making me scrub my feet so I was less "fucking disgusting..."  The time he told me that if I was pregnant, he'd give me "the coat-hanger treatment..."  The times he compared me unfavourably to other women - ones he'd been with before me and ones he slept with whilst we were together... The times he'd get what he wanted sexually, then roll over and warn me in no uncertain terms not to touch him, leaving me feeling alone and confused... The times he'd deliberately wind me up and then leave me sexually frustrated... The times he'd deliberately make me angry or upset, so he could criticise my reaction and use it as justification for refusing to commit to a relationship with me...The insistence that none of it was his fault; the world was cruel and out to get him and he was just trying to deal with his issues the only way he knew how...  It was abuse.  All of it.

And once I saw that, I was angry.  Not just with him, but with myself.  How had I not seen it?!  Why did I put up with it all?!

But of course, I was being manipulated.  I fell for his tragic sob story.  The whole "I was abused as a child; I only push you away because I'm scared... I don't know any other way to behave" shebang.  And I wanted to fix him.  I - as crazy as it might sound, given the above list of atrocious things he said and did - loved him.  And when he told me he loved me too, I believed him.  I was going to see it through, however hard it was.  I was going to help him let go of his awful past and move forwards into a happy, loving future.  

Eventually, my amazing support worker helped me to let go of the anger I felt at my own perceived weakness and made me realise that I wasn't weak at all.  I was so, so strong.  I had put him first, even when it hurt me to do so, because I loved him and believed I was helping him.  And maybe, if he had wanted to grow and change as a person, I would have been.  But he didn't want that.  He wanted to use me.  He wanted an excuse to treat me - and others - however he saw fit.  He chose to abuse. 

Abuse is always, always a choice.  Abusers don't go around controlling, manipulating or otherwise abusing people every minute of every day.  They often have jobs, hobbies and social circles, in which they behave as anyone else would.  They can be charming and even affectionate (otherwise, you'd spot the abuse more easily and leave far sooner).  In the moments when a person chooses to abuse, whatever form that abuse takes, they do it through choice.  Not because they had a terrible past and don't know any better.  Not because you've done something to cause them to have no choice but to abuse you.

Once I stepped out from the shadow of my experience, I was able to see it clearly for what it was.  And now, three and a half years after leaving, I can understand why I didn't recognise it at the time.  I heard his "explanations" and I accepted them.  I thought I could help him.  I focused on the times we sat up all night, snuggled together, pouring our hearts out to one another.  I held on to the times he'd make me laugh, or hold me when I cried.  I saw the relationship I wanted us to have, whilst he manipulated me into being blind to what we really had.  Which, of course, was nothing.

I want to go back in time and tell this girl "I know you like him, but just RUN."

Now, more than five years after I first met my ex, I co-run a campaign called Fifty Shades Is Domestic Abuse.  Not because I'm a prude, who hates the thought of BDSM.  Not because I want to censor anyone's reading or viewing habits.  But because when I read the trilogy, I was stunned to realise I was reading something that may as well have been about my ex, give or take a few billion in the bank and a pair of handcuffs.  The manipulation, the coercion, the control...  It was all there.

Fans of the book often tell me there's no abuse in Fifty Shades.  The author tells survivors the same on a pretty much daily basis, often in a hugely offensive, borderline abusive manner (she even sent a rape survivor triggered by her books a gif of a woman throwing a book at someone's head, with the hashtag "#ignorant").  But just as I didn't recognise my own abuse at the time, it doesn't mean it wasn't there.  The abuse in Fifty Shades is very much there.  But when you point it out, the two myths I clung onto get trotted out by fans:  "But he doesn't know any better; he's messed up!"  And: "She sticks around and she cures him with her love."

I know it's a fantasy and the whole point of fantasy is that it doesn't have to have its roots in reality.  But considering emotional/psychological abuse is so insidious that it often goes unrecognised even by the people living with it, I don't think we need fantasy that romanticises it and perpetuates the idea that sticking with an abusive person will cause them to change in the end so that you live happily ever after.

All of which brings me to what caused me to write this piece in the first place.  In the past 48 hours, three separate Fifty Shades fans have contacted me to tell me that emotional abuse "doesn't exist."  One, a survivor of physical violence, even made the shocking decision to send me a photo of herself covered in bruises, with the tag: "THIS IS ABUSE, YOU FUCKING IDIOT.  THERE IS NO OTHER FORM!"

Except there is.  Of course there is.  Emotional & psychological abuse are recognised by all major abuse charities and by the government of this country.  It may not cause bruises, but it causes scars that run deep, even if they cannot be seen by the naked eye.  The fact that there are people out there - and I believe there are far more than just three - who refuse to believe that such a thing exists proves that we need far greater awareness of what constitutes abuse and where to get help.

Five years after I met my ex, I spend some of my time writing on abuse and campaigning against it.  I'm not "weak" or "pathetic," like he said I was.  I've grown and become stronger than I ever thought I could be.  I have a voice and I'm proud to make it heard.

So when you next hear someone say they've experienced emotional abuse, don't tell them that such a thing doesn't exist.  Don't ignore them or dismiss them.  Listen.

WRSAC North Cornwall (to whom I dedicate this post)

Rape Crisis

Women's Aid