Author: Mireille

Dr Mireille Hebing Survivor, mum, sociologist.

Calling the Police

The first time I called the police to report him I threw up afterwards. The sense of shame was overwhelming, and I felt as if I was betraying him and my children. By this time though, I knew he would never stop unless I took some drastic measures.

After we left, perhaps naively, I thought we were free of him. I had little understanding of the connection between abuse and control, and did not know that abusive behaviour intensifies, becoming much worse once abusive men lose control over their victims. He was still calling me every day and texting me all the time, constantly keeping the pressure on. I didn’t dare ignore him, as I feared what he might do to the children when they visited him.

Two months earlier, we had moved out of the family home into a rented flat. Initially he still saw the children regularly, about two or three times a week. When he collected them from the flat, he insisted on coming inside, and would create tension, by commenting on how I looked, touching me, or trying to force me to kiss him. Sometimes he would just walk in touching my things, as if he owned the place, and still owned us.

By this time, I was in touch with a local domestic abuse service and spoke to my outreach worker regularly. She had advised me a few times to report him to the police, telling me I was justified in doing so. The number to call for acute emergencies was 999, and for reporting incidents that were not an immediate emergency 101. I had never reported any abusive incidents whilst we lived with him, and after I left, I hoped that I could avoid involving any police or social services. In many ways I was almost as scared of them as I was of him.

One day he picked up the children to stay with him overnight, and his behaviour was appalling, he cornered me in the kitchen, standing in the doorway so I couldn’t get out, physically imposing and threatening me. I managed to push him out of the kitchen, all the way out of the flat, whilst yelling at him to leave me alone. I then realised he would never stop doing this, he enjoyed causing such scenes especially in front of the children. I felt I had no choice and called 101 that evening.

The idea of calling the police to help me manage my life filled me with incredible shame, stereotypical images of battered wives filled my head, surely, I was not that woman? I felt sick to the stomach and was shaking as I spoke to them on the phone. They took all my details, gave me a crime reference number, and told me an officer would visit me at home the next day.

Having the police in my home was not what I wanted, I couldn’t bear the shame of having a police car in my drive for everyone to see. That night I barely slept, anxious and hoping they would park at the end of the road and walk down, imagining the officer would be a middle aged, kind-hearted woman. At about 11am I saw the car arrive from my kitchen window, parking in the drive where everyone could see they were visiting me. The officer got out of the car, a young man, who looked barely older than my teenage son. How could I tell the details of my horrific story to a young man, how could he have the knowledge and experience needed to understand what we had been through?

He was very polite when he came in, and I made him some tea. I kept on apologising, saying ‘sorry, sorry, my case is not so urgent, we are fine, we are fine’, and ‘you may not believe me, I am from a working class background, but highly educated and you may not understand how this could happen to someone like me’ and then started to cry. He said ‘actually, domestic abuse happens to women in all social groups, and we are welcoming more reporting, so it doesn’t remain hidden’. He then explained that he would do a risk assessment, would I be ok to answer some questions. He took out a pack of forms, and started asking detailed, at times very intimate questions.

And I started talking, reluctantly at first, then openly and without holding back. He took the time to listen carefully, prompting me and asking for more detail when needed. I told him things I had never talked about before, and gradually lost my sense of shame, putting my experiences into words. It took almost three hours, and where before I had always believed my ex was not violent because he didn’t hit me, the police officer concluded that he was violent and that we were at significant risk.

Interestingly, listening to my own story through the perception of someone else gave me a much deeper understanding of what had happened to us. For the first time I realised that the physically threatening behaviour, the constant emotional abuse and the financial control were all part of the same systematic controlling pattern of behaviour. The ‘significant risk’ did not scare me, in a perverted way, it made me feel legitimated, right in having left him, and finally justified in calling his behaviour domestic abuse.

The police officer told me that unfortunately there was nothing in my story he could charge my ex with, and there would be no arrest. He did encourage me to report anything else, explaining what kind of incidents would be a criminal offence. My ex was never charged with anything but overcoming my shame and telling my story in all its sordid detail to an official who believed me was empowering and good practice for all the subsequent times I needed to tell it.

Since that day, I called the police many more times, reporting incidents ranging from overtly threatening behaviour to constantly texting me or the children. Other officers visited my home, sometimes supportive, at other times useless, misogynistic themselves. I learnt to ignore them, and instead used the support of the good ones to stop my ex from coming into our new home, from constantly calling or texting, from being abusive to the children, securing safety until finally he was out of our lives forever.

In the UK, the police are called out to domestic abuse incidents more than to any other crime. These incidents rarely result in arrest, leave alone in court cases or conviction of the perpetrator. Yet reporting is important, in a political sense, it gives a good idea of how widespread domestic abuse is, and hopefully spurs authorities into action. At a personal level, sharing your experiences in order to create safety is an important step in taking back control over your life. The police remain problematic, whilst increased reporting of domestic abuse has led to some positive changes, attitudes rooted in traditional masculinity remain entrenched across many police forces. I like to think that more reporting, more sharing of experiences will eventually crumble the last remnants of negative attitudes towards domestic abuse survivors.

 Mireille

‘I’ve Left Him: Now What Do I Do’?

Leaving an abusive partner is probably one of the most difficult and dangerous things to confront in life. You may have taken years to decide, and have now finally taken the step. Many survivors, after years of having been isolated from friends, family and the wider community, find they have to do this on their own. Often with no money, no housing security, no idea of what will happen next.

After leaving, the abuse, the fear and anxiety that was ever-present during the relationship does not end. Perpetrators do not want to lose control, and tend to continue their reign of terror after separation often being at their most dangerous when the victim leaves. The worst violence, including murder, happens when abuse victims try to leave.

During this period of overwhelming fear and anxiety, you are also confronted with the practicalities of moving to a new house, the children’s lives, and other issues that require organisation and rationality. Many victims have experience of dealing with police, social services or courts before they leave, but for others this is new, and again a real source of fear and shame. ‘If I tell them what really happened, will they take my children away’? and other such thoughts.  

When I left, I was in a real state, and lived almost on automatic pilot; other than the adrenaline that came with the fear, there was no time or space to feel anything. Thinking back to that time, there were a few things that were incredibly useful to me:

1.       Tell people you trust

This is not easy, as you may have been silent about your experiences for a long time, and the shame of some of the things that happened to you runs deep. However, in telling friends and family you will find incredible support, and you may learn that unexpected others have had similar experiences. Tell your GP, your children’s teachers, perhaps your colleagues or line manager at work. Not everyone may be supportive, but the benefits of sharing your experiences are important. Firstly, as you tell your story you become stronger, it gets easier as you find words to describe what happened to you. Secondly, as you tell more people, friends, neighbours, other parents, you build a network of safety around you and your children. It limits the perpetrator’s freedom to come close and harass you whenever he feels like it. Finally, telling your story to GPs, schools and other organisations helps if you end up in court in the future. Some of this reporting counts as evidence, you may not want to think about this early on, and you don’t have to, but if a couple of years later on you need a letter of support from your GP or a domestic abuse organisation, it can help your case.

2.       Find an Outreach Worker

Most women I meet who have just left state they do not want to involve police or social services, and understandably so. Public services do not have a good reputation when it comes to domestic abuse, and often cause more anxiety than offering real support. However, all local areas have very good domestic abuse services, local charities or voluntary organisations that offer helplines, outreach services, drop-in groups, legal advice or other useful support. Five minutes of googling ‘domestic abuse services’ in your local area will give you a list. Their services are confidential, and they do not involve police or social services unless you are in immediate danger. I contacted my local domestic abuse service two months after I left him and was allocated my own Outreach Worker. For the first year or so I called her two or three times a week. She helped me understand how domestic abuse perpetrators operate and how to limit my ex’s control over my life until eventually I never had to see him or speak to him again. I used to tell her everything about myself and the children and it was through these conversations and the various services I accessed through the organisation that the children and I started to claim our lives back. If you have not yet left the relationship, these organisations will offer support without putting pressure on you.

3.       Create a file, write down everything

In the first few weeks after leaving, the anxiety is often crippling and the list of things to do endless, and just getting through the day seems an impossible task. Whilst in a state of severe emotional distress, you are required to be completely rational in dealing with the official side of ending an abusive relationship, such as housing, finance or legal issues. I gave all the official stuff a file that I would take out for an hour or so two or three times a week, that was initially all the rationality I could manage. During that hour I would write down everything relating to the abuse, if he still harassed me, if he did something to the children (in case I would need it later), anything to do with finance and banking, or anything else official. If I didn’t know how to deal with something, I would call my Outreach Worker and ask for help. Once I closed my file for the day, I had symbolically given the rational, official stuff a place, and could allow myself the space to deal with the more mundane tasks of work, school runs or shopping. Of course it didn’t always work, but it helped me to find my way through.

Remember, If it all feels too much, be gentle with yourself, you do not have to solve everything in one day, just take one step at a time, and know that you are not alone.

 Mireille

 

Hanging Pictures after Coercion and Control

Last weekend I hung up pictures in my home for the first time in fifteen years. I framed them in January, and it still took me six months to hang them. They are nothing valuable, some photo’s, a painting, just things collected over a lifetime. Gifts from friends and family, homemade drawings, posters I bought maybe thirty years ago, or things made by my children, each object has dear memories attached to it. To me they are the background to my life, and they make me feel at home, giving me a space in which I belong and can be myself. In psychotherapy and counselling the home is often seen as a representation of the self, for example if we dream of a part of our home crumbling it might mean that a part of our inner being is in trouble and in need of attention.  For me, my home and the things in it are deeply personal, and I have a real need to be in my space to find my sense of calm, so I can cope with the hustle and bustle that modern life inherently brings in this mad world.

When I lived with my abusive ex, he took real pleasure in creating tension in the home, and what should have been my safe space became a place of terror for me and my children. I did not understand his behaviour as coercion and control at the time, as this language was not used so much then. However, in 2015 coercive and controlling behaviour became a criminal offence, and since then it is a term much more used, and to some extent more understood.  It refers to sustained patterns of domestic abuse that are designed to gain total control over a person’s life by the perpetrator.

The controlling behaviour my ex displayed included targeting anything I tried to do to make our house a home. The house, the garden and anything in it was not safe. Anything we had, furniture, crockery, curtains or other furnishings always had to be beige or white. He would criticise and ridicule anything I bought or made, and would often break things, plants, pots, plates, mugs, lamps, even the children’s toys. He kicked in the doors in the house repeatedly, until they were beyond repair, he once set fire to the dining room table, and purposely broke the legs of my kitchen chairs. He could do this randomly for no apparent reason at all, or to coerce me into doing something I didn’t want to do, such as lie for him or give him money. It could also be punishment for something, for laughing too loud or not laughing at all, for spending time with the children, or for just being. If he saw me upset he would laugh, and if he saw the children upset he would laugh too. Nothing was sacred.

In response to his behaviour I learned to push my feelings of attachment to the home deeply away as it hurt too much to see it destroyed. I could never show that I liked something, if I expressed pleasure for something or if he knew an object held meaning for me, especially if it related to my family, my home country, or my childhood he would criticise it incessantly. He would bully and threaten me about it, making derogatory comments about being pretentious, rude, cheap or having no taste. As a coping strategy I learnt to be completely emotionally detached, not only from my home, but also from myself.

Many of my personal belongings were lost or damaged, but I had kept some of my pictures boxed up, tucked away in the cellar. In keeping my things safe, I tried to protect not only my memories, but also my identity and sense of belonging. In the last few years of living with him, I used to dream about leaving him, living in a home where I could unpack those boxes and have all my things, and my children’s things out in the open, loving them and making a home.

However, when I finally did manage to leave him in 2013, looking forward to having my own space again, I found it very difficult. Anything personal or loving I wanted to do in the home came with deep anxiety and a depression that would leave me completely immobilised. The detachment I had learnt seemed impossible to overcome, especially living in rented accommodation the first few years. Just over a year ago the children and I moved into a new house, and very gradually we are bringing our personalities into it. We are making it our home, I finally emptied the boxes, taking out the pictures, re-framing them, daring to love them. When I finished hanging them last week, I just sat in the middle of the living room on the floor, having the courage to feel happy and enjoying it. Leaving him six years ago was extremely difficult and quite dangerous, and recovery from domestic abuse and coercive control is extremely unpleasant, but sitting in my home, watching my children in their own bedrooms having their things around them, I think we are beginning to feel safe and less detached.

Mireille

Laughter in Recovery: Be Loud and Be Proud

Living in a situation of domestic abuse is widely acknowledged as a deeply disturbing and distressing event that produces extreme trauma. Its victims will suffer physical, psychological and emotional issues, including extreme anxiety and fear, low self-esteem, a deep sense of shame, depression, injury and ill health, and many survivors experience post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

When I left my abusive ex, I did not think about myself as having traumatic experiences in need of recovery, because in the first year all I could think about was keeping myself and the children safe.  Perhaps naively, I thought that when I left him, I would just automatically go back to the person I was before I met him. However, since I left there have been many nights of not sleeping, numerous anxiety attacks, depression, and extremely high levels of stress. I gradually realised that trauma as a result of domestic abuse is real, and facing this trauma is not something that can be avoided. Through the journey towards recovery I developed a thorough understanding of how abuse operates on the self, and how processes of recovery work in mysterious ways to help survivors overcome their trauma.

Before my ex came into my life, I was a relatively normal person, with a relatively average life. I was by no means perfect, but I think I was a good person. I had a nice network of friends and family that I would see regularly, I was happy in my career and comfortable in my own skin. I enjoyed the company of others, and loved having conversations with people, talking, listening, and laughing. I especially cherished moments I would have with myself on my own, and when I was home I would often dance, or sing in my own language, usually whilst tidying up, cleaning or cooking. I did this my entire life, and I think it was in these moments that I felt closest to who I am on the inside. Whilst pottering about, singing and dancing, I could think clearly, processing the little things of daily life and organising the world in my mind.

The ultimate aim of men who abuse is to gain complete control over their victims, and their various abusive strategies are directed towards achieving this purpose. Financial abuse creates a direct dependence, and severely limits any chance of an independent life beyond the relationship.  Physical violence generates immediate and acute fear, which makes a victim reluctant to go against the abuser’s wishes, and stops them from challenging any abusive behaviour. The aim of emotional abuse is less easy to understand, and more difficult to detect. Name calling, ridiculing, and belittling are designed to make a person feel so bad about themselves that their consciousness becomes removed from their inner personality, until there is hardly any sense of self left.

The abusive man I lived with used a variety of techniques, and over a number of years, I changed from being a reasonably confident, happy person, to someone with very low self-esteem, thinking I did not deserve to feel good about myself, and forgetting who I was on the inside. He managed to do this by slowly removing me from the person I was, telling me almost every day that I was rude, and that other people found me embarrassing. He told me I was too loud, and that I always dominated conversations; if I was on the phone to friends or family he would write me little notes saying ‘how are you’, indicating that I was talking about myself too much, and not asking the other person how they were. If we were having dinner with friends, and someone would talk to me, he would interrupt and answer for me, or he would whisper in my ear to be quiet. Towards the end, he would not even whisper anymore, but would openly shush me. If I laughed he’d say I was too loud, if I didn’t laugh he’d say I was always miserable. If I sang or danced he would make a fuss, laughing at me, making me feel ridiculous. He never liked me speaking my own language, and often told me not to tell anyone that I could speak languages, as this would make me look pretentious. Eventually I stopped laughing, singing and dancing, and conversations with people became fraught with anxiety. Over time, he managed to exactly target the traits that made me who I was, until I became very uncomfortable in my own skin, and ashamed of my inner self, forgetting many of the little things that gave me pleasure.

I always thought that when he was out of our lives, I would soon start laughing, singing and dancing again, but it did not happen for a long time. The darkness I faced after leaving was a surprise, and it completely overwhelmed me. For a long time, any social event was accompanied by anxiety attacks (including throwing up), and feelings of shame or guilt afterwards. The first little ray of light in this darkness came in the shape of Natalya, a new friend I met at a mums’ night out; Natalya is a very beautiful, tall blonde woman, who is naturally glamourous, yet also one the most normal, down to earth people I have ever met. We enjoyed each other’s company, and were soon aware of the other’s background of living with abuse. After a few months we spent a weekend at a friend’s cottage in Norfolk, mostly to have some outdoor adventures with our children. The weekend we picked, in October 2013, witnessed one of the most devastating storms of the decade. We had heard about the storm on the news, and made sure we were back indoors from our woodland walks on time, following severe weather warnings.

As Natalya and I sat by the fire in the evening, we did not hear the raging storm outside. We were talking, and as we shared our stories, we realised we had had similar lives. For both of us it was the first time we disclosed some of our most hidden experiences, and we could quite easily recognise each other’s trauma. I felt I could talk without shame or embarrassment, and it was nice to feel comfortable in someone else’s company. At one point during the night we popped outside, to check on the house; it was only then that we realised the magnitude of the storm, it was incredibly loud, thundering through old trees, and whistling around the house. As we walked around the garden, checking things, Natalya said ‘hold on’, walked a few steps away from me, stuck out her perfectly shaped bottom and blew the loudest fart I had ever heard. It was so loud that it drowned out the thundering of the storm, I was sure the whole of Norfolk heard it.

In response, I felt a rumbling noise creeping its way up from inside me, needing to come out. It was laughter, I laughed, and laughed, louder and louder, from the depth of my insides. How could such a glamourous creature, all long legs and blondeness, do such a monstrous loud fart, and not feel any shame about it? She winked at me and said ‘be loud and be proud’, because ‘it is not healthy to hold it in you know’. In that moment, we looked at each other, and we knew, there is no need to be embarrassed about your innermost physical functions, and there is no need to apologise for being you. You do not need to be ashamed of yourself. You are entitled to be, and you can start re-claiming some of that person you are on the inside. I felt for the first time in years that it was ok to laugh, to talk, to sing, to dance and to be me.

Leaving an abusive relationship is incredibly difficult, and the journey to recovery is long, full of ups and downs. There are times that it seems almost impossible to feel better, but there is support, there are friends, and there is definitely laughter. It was that night in Norfolk that I took the first tiny steps to re-discovering myself and towards recovery; now, five years on, there are still moments that I worry that I sing too loud, laugh too much or draw too much attention to myself. Some remnants of the abuse remain, but whenever I need reminding, I hear Natalya’s voice telling me ‘be loud and be proud’, upon which I smile to myself and find the space to just be.

Mireille

#Nowwhat? Listening to Stories of Abuse

 

Despite the pouring rain and freezing cold, on 21st January 2018 thousands of people in London held up banners and listened to speakers at the Time’s Up Rally outside Downing Street. They stood in solidarity with people in cities all across the world to mark the second Global Women’s March. Many references were made to the re-drawing of boundaries within gender culture that have occurred since the first Global Women’s March in January 2017, which emerged in response to the election of Donald Trump as US president. A myriad of issues relating to abuse of women were discussed, including sexual harassment in the workplace, the gender pay gap, the lack of women in powerful positions, the vulnerability of refugee and migrant women, and domestic violence. The #metoo campaign was mentioned, and so was one of its rallying cries: ‘speak your truth’.

This phrase, as well as the movement itself have sparked complex debates in the media in recent months, and some critical concerns have been raised.  The meaning of ‘speaking your truth’ was questioned, is a person who shares their experiences of harassment, violence or abuse speaking their truth or the truth? The words of Neo in the Matrix spring to mind, ‘what truth’? Or, to complicate the issue more, ‘whose truth’?  These are philosophical questions to which there is a whole range of possible answers, none of which are useful to understanding the issue of telling stories of sexual violence and abuse of women.

I told my story for the first time five years ago, and I spoke my truth. During the ten years I lived with my abusive ex, I maintained silence about what was happening in our home. There were different reasons for keeping our situation hidden: domestic abuse is ugly and there is no dignity in dealing with violent and degrading incidents on a daily basis. Living with abusive behaviour comes with a great sense of shame, and men who abuse rely on the loss of dignity and feelings of shame to keep their victims quiet.

The element of fear was another contributing factor to my silence. When people question why women do not leave, they misunderstand and underestimate the dangerous situations women and children can be in when living with abuse. The abuse my children and I lived with mostly followed a pattern, a cycle of abuse, but every now and then my ex would display the most unpredictable, irrational behaviour imaginable, which was sufficient to keep me in a state of fear and on edge at all times. I learnt very quickly that there was no moral line he would not cross. For example, I remember driving on the motorway, with the children on the backseat, the youngest still a baby. He would suddenly go into a rage, start driving like a maniac at a ridiculous speed, weaving in and out of lanes, whilst screaming the worst language at me, and putting us all in danger. Once, when I was driving us home from a friend’s house, again on the motorway, he started shouting verbal abuse at me, physically pushing and pulling at me, then opened his door and hung himself outside of the car. When I still lived with him, I thought he behaved like this because he could not control his temper. I later learnt that these crazy displays of rage were designed purposely to instil fear, carefully calculated to maintain his system of control over us.

The main reason for not exposing our situation, and for not leaving him was rooted in fear. I feared for myself, but more than anything I feared for the safety of my children, as I knew he had no qualms about putting them in danger either. I always worried that if we left, would he still see them? Would he legally have access to them? What if they would be with him without me there to protect them? So I stayed, I maintained my silence, and tried to manage the situation.

I never planned to tell anyone about what was happening to us. I could not see a way out and did not have words through which to explain my experiences. However, as most survivors know, men who abuse become worse over time. Eventually, the cycle of abuse intensified, and the incidents of violence became much more frequent. My anguish became so palpable that I could not hide it anymore, and in the end I told my story. One day, as I walked home with a very close friend after the school run, she asked how our weekend had been and I just cried and started talking. In that moment, I spoke my truth. I was lucky I could tell my story to a friend who listened carefully, full of concern and without any judgment. To this day I still very much appreciate her capacity for listening, and love her deeply. To me, ‘speaking my truth’ simply meant overcoming fear and shame to tell stories of traumatic personal experiences, and bring into the open previously hidden topics on which rests a heavy taboo in wider society.

Early comments on the #metoo campaign included the concern that although important, the movement placed the responsibility to instigate change on those who suffered abuse. This is a valid concern, as telling such stories is extremely difficult, and for many carries great risk. An equally important question is that once told, what is the role of the individual story in political activism going to be? To what extent do individual stories coming out have the power to influence social and political change?

Initially a few individual women came forward with tales about sexual harassment, abuse or violence. Then more women told similar stories, opening up spaces for others to do the same. Eventually these individual stories became a shared narrative. In this way women who had similar experiences formed a community, using the #metoo hashtag to become an online community of voices breaking silence, and placing issues that were taboo and hidden on the political agenda. In this way the journey from individual story to shaping public and political debates represents a legitimate form of democratic politics.

As early as November 2017 the more problematic question #metoo so #nowwhat floated around social media. How is profound, real, and lasting change going to come about? And again, where does the responsibility for this change lie? In my view, the individual stories that make up the #metoo campaign have done their work; abuse of women in many of its forms has been pulled out of obscurity, and pushed into the spotlight. There is no more hiding it now, the global population has learned extremely disturbing truths about the world, truths that many would prefer to remain in oblivion. Finally, I might add, as it took a mighty long time.

The simple answer to the complex question #nowwhat is to listen; it is easy to be misguided by public debates about the meaning of truth or the political potential of the #metoo campaign, or by discussions about Oprah Winfrey running for president after her ‘Speak your Truth’ speech at the Golden Globes. However, these narratives shift attention away from the heart of the problem.  Instead, move beyond the sanitised versions portrayed through hashtags and quick Facebook posts, important though they are. Listen to the grim details of the stories, the long horrific versions, which are not so easy to digest. Pay attention to incidents that are uncomfortable and undignified, the telling of which requires storytellers to overcome shame and fear.

It is in these raw details that we learn that violence against women in all its forms goes beyond individual experiences. True listeners will learn that men abuse in a systematic way, and that abusive behaviour is rooted in a deeply flawed gender culture that facilitates and tacitly condones toxic masculinity.  Often employers do not act, police officers do not arrest, perpetrators are not held accountable through court cases, and women and children are not protected by social services or the criminal justice system.

Abuse of women is systemic, enshrined in the structures, institutions and cultures that make up our societies. This is an extremely uncomfortable reality, and when audiences engage with the details in stories of abuse, they will develop an understanding of how law, politics, industries and employment, as well as public services and institutions operate to maintain silence, and are permeated by a gender culture that enables violence and abuse.

Mireille

Domestic Abuse: There Are No Words…

‘There are no words’ is a useful phrase in the English language. We have all lived through experiences for which it is difficult to find words that express exactly how we felt at the time. The birth of your child, a beautiful sunset, or dancing to live music with friends can all evoke intense emotions for which we cannot immediately find words. The ‘there are no words’ here is symbolic, a metaphor for describing some amazing experience. Of course there are words to express such sentiments: ‘beautiful’, ‘moving’, ‘incredible’, or ‘extraordinary’ are all good, solid words through which to express strong feelings and emotions.

However, there are situations where the phrase ‘there are no words’ has a literal meaning. For example, there are no words to name or define a woman who lives with a perpetrator of domestic violence, at least no words without a negative stigma attached to it. I did not know any word to describe myself when I lived with my abusive ex. They do not exist. I did not feel that ‘battered wife’ applied to me, as he never hit me. He was definitely violent, he broke everything in the house, lamps, furniture, children’s toys, but never hit me. At different times during the relationship he pushed me, kicked me, or put his hands around my throat. He would throw bottles of wine, cups of tea, his dinner, books, and even heavy gardening equipment at me, but never hit me. I had such a poor understanding of domestic violence, that I did not recognise his behaviour as abusive. It was only when I left and found support at a local domestic abuse service that I became informed and realised that even though he did not hit me, I had been living in a severe situation of domestic violence.

If the word ‘battered wife’ was not useful, then perhaps ‘victim’ might be a better way to describe the situation. This did not quite work either, I often felt victimised, but never a victim. The word ‘victim’ indicates a strong element of passivity, and women who live with abusers are never passive. They cannot be, as living with domestic violence demands a constant alertness, often even during sleep. In the field this state of alertness is called ‘fight or flight mode’, and compared with what soldiers experience during active combat. This alertness means all your senses are constantly active, ready to pick up on the slightest sign of impending violence or other abusive behaviour. During my relationship, I was continuously completely alert and on edge; I had to be, as not picking up on the tiniest clue would mean I may not be able to protect myself or the children. It took time, but eventually I developed the ability to tell what his behaviour would be like by the sound of his footstep, the tone of his voice, the way he turned a page of the newspaper or how he glanced at me. In this way I learned to anticipate incidents, devise strategies and use coping mechanisms, and often but not always avoid violence and nastiness. Any person who manages to act rationally from within this state of fear cannot be named ‘victim’ and it is not a good word either.

Interestingly, other than ‘abuser’ there are no good words that describe or define perpetrators of domestic abuse either. There are words for all kinds of violent and criminal behaviour, if a person kills someone, they are a murderer; when someone breaks into another person’s house, they are a burglar; a man who forces a woman to have sex with him against her will is a rapist, but when a man terrorises his partner and children in the home, there is no word to describe who or what they are. I have learned to use the word ‘abuser’, but unfortunately most people do not know what it means. It is a commonly used word by survivors and those who work in domestic violence support services, but outside of this small circle, it is a term that is not understood at all.

This lack of adequate language makes talking about abuse, seeking support, and accessing legal services extremely difficult, and it keeps many recipients of domestic violence (including children) in hazardous situations that they cannot find a way out of. Therefore, the literal meaning of ‘there are no words’ is dangerous, and it is crucial to develop appropriate language to express experiences of domestic abuse for a variety of reasons: firstly, at individual level, women who live with domestic violence need words to describe their experiences. Words that can be used to define the self in that situation without shame and stigma, adequate language through which to report incidents and share stories.

Secondly, suitable words are needed in wider society, words that carefully explain what abuse means. People need to develop a thorough understanding of how abusers operate, in order to raise awareness of violence against women as a preventive strategy. In addition, a terminology is required that challenges negative images of women who have experiences of violence. In this way, current views based on dangerous misinformation can be challenged, and the incredible shame that women continue to feel can be reduced.

Finally, at political level, language is needed that does not come from patriarchal myths and stereotypes, which often justify violent masculine behaviour. Inequality, sexism and toxic masculinity in wider society encourage victim blaming, and ensure that perpetrators are rarely held responsible for their actions. It is imperative that language used to design law, policy and support services is informed by in-depth knowledge provided by survivors, experienced legal practitioners, women’s groups and academics.

In conclusion, at a time where reports of domestic abuse, sexual violence and sexual harassment in all areas of women’s lives are on the rise, having a language that carefully explains what abuse is, and how to deal with it, is extremely important. Good, solid words that can be used to share experiences and deconstruct stereotypes. Having appropriate language to facilitate conversations about abuse will increase awareness, and enable all members of society to be involved in protecting themselves, as well as their mothers, sisters, daughters and friends.

Mireille