Tag: coercive control

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

 

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