Tag: violence against women

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

#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