When I Couldn't Breathe

By the time I moved into my new house, the word new had started to feel like a bit of a fucking joke.

New house.

New relationship.

New beginning.

That's what it was supposed to be.

Except I'd brought the nightmare through the front door with me.

By then, he was tangled into practically every part of my life.

My house.

My car.

My bank account.

My phone.

My location.

My work.

My time.

And increasingly?

My body.

The violence wasn't one isolated incident anymore.

It was becoming part of the relationship.

And there is one incident in that new house that I can still picture clearly.

The New Bed

The new bed had arrived.

I can't even remember what the argument was about.

And maybe somebody reading this will wonder:

How can you remember exactly what he did but not remember what you were arguing about?

Because there were so many arguments.

So many accusations.

So many things I'd supposedly done wrong.

Eventually they all blur into one.

But I remember what he did.

He flipped part of the bed.

He pinned me down.

Then he sat on my chest.

Suddenly, I couldn't move properly.

I couldn't get him off me.

I couldn't control what was happening.

Then I saw what he had in his hand.

The Screwdriver

An electric screwdriver.

And he put it towards my eye.

I was screaming.

I remember looking at his face.

His eyes looked black.

Not literally black.

I know that.

But that's how I remember them.

There was nothing in them that I recognised as the man I'd laughed with.

The man who'd kissed me beside my car.

The man who'd gone shopping with me.

The man who could be funny and affectionate and make me feel like the most wanted woman in the world.

I turned my head.

And instead of my eye?

The screwdriver caught my face. 

And somehow, even after things like this, the blame would always find its way back to me.

Apparently?

I'd ruined his birthday too.

Of course I had.

Because by then, everything was my fault.

His temper?

My fault.

His jealousy?

My fault.

His accusations?

My fault.

His violence?

Somehow still my fault.

If I answered back, I'd caused it.

If I didn't answer, I was hiding something.

If I tried explaining myself, I was lying.

If I went quiet, apparently that proved I was guilty.

There was no correct response.

Because the game wasn't designed for me to win.

Different Rules for Him

At one point, he spent hours inside a neighbour's house.

I asked why.

That's it.

I asked a question.

Considering I practically needed to provide fucking GPS coordinates to go anywhere, you'd imagine I was allowed to ask why he'd disappeared into somebody else's house for hours.

Apparently not.

That became another problem.

There were completely different rules for him.

I had to account for everything.

He didn't.

I had to prove where I was.

He didn't.

I had to explain every phone call.

Every message.

Every person.

Every journey.

Every fucking movement.

But if I questioned him?

I was the problem.

And then something started happening that was dangerous for him.

Other people began seeing little pieces of what was happening.

He Came to My Work

For the first time, he turned up at my workplace angry.

Work had always been one of the few places where I could pretend I was functioning normally.

I could put my uniform on.

Do my job.

Look after other people.

Laugh with colleagues.

Act like my life wasn't completely falling apart behind closed doors.

Then he brought it there too.

A nurse saw enough of what was happening that he sent me down the back until this man left.

Somebody else had seen it.

Maybe not everything.

But enough.

For the first time, little cracks were appearing between the life everybody thought I had and the life I was actually living.

And still?

I went home.

Because I wasn't ready yet.

Or maybe I didn't even understand what being ready looked like.

The Next Morning

He picked me up from work the next morning.

He hurt my arm.

At one point, I was pushed out of the car.

And a woman stopped.

A complete stranger.

She could see enough of what was happening that she started phoning the police.

Think about that.

Somebody who didn't know either of us could look at what was happening for a matter of seconds and know:

Something is seriously wrong here.

But before the police actually arrived or became involved?

He got me back into the car.

And drove off.

There wasn't police involvement at that point.

The woman had been trying to get them there.

But I was already back in that car with him.

Further down the road?

He strangled me.

Then he drove me to an abandoned house.

And somehow?

Once again, the problem was apparently me.

Apparently I was bipolar.

Apparently there was something wrong with my head.

Apparently everything happening between us was because of me.

That's another thing I started losing during that relationship.

Not just my freedom.

Not just my independence.

Trust in my own mind.

Because when somebody repeatedly tells you that you're crazy...

Unstable.

Lying.

Cheating.

Imagining things.

Causing everything.

Eventually, a tiny part of you starts wondering:

Am I?

Even when another part of you knows exactly what's happening.

And Then I Went to Work

After all of that?

I went to work that night.

Because that's what I did.

Something horrific would happen and then I'd just...

carry on.

Go to work.

Do the shift.

Look after other people.

Smile when required.

Answer questions.

Pretend everything was normal.

Except that night something happened that I hadn't expected.

I miscarried.

I hadn't even known I was pregnant.

There I was, at work, discovering that I was losing a pregnancy I hadn't even known existed.

I don't think there's a tidy emotion for something like that.

Shock.

Grief.

Confusion.

Pain.

All of it mixed together.

He came to pick me up.

And he wasn't exactly delighted about having to do it.

Why?

Because he'd had to leave the gym.

The gym.

I was miscarrying.

And somehow even then?

I felt like an inconvenience.

I went home.

I went to bed.

I Just Wanted My Partner

The next morning, I was sore.

I was upset.

There were people in the house.

He was out spending my money.

And I didn't want anything complicated.

I didn't want some grand romantic gesture.

I just wanted comfort.

I wanted my partner.

I wanted him to sit beside me.

Spend some time with me.

Maybe put his arms around me.

Tell me I was okay.

Be there.

That's all.

After everything my body had been through, I just wanted the man who was supposed to love me to sit with me.

I wanted to spend time with him. 

And apparently?

Even that was too much to ask.

Because he flipped.

I Blacked Out

He dragged me across the living room.

Kicking me.

He got me onto the couch.

Then he put his hands around my neck.

And strangled me.

He didn't stop when I couldn't breathe.

He didn't stop when I couldn't fight properly.

He strangled me until I blacked out.

I lost consciousness.

Because the man who supposedly loved me had his hands around my throat.

And even writing that now, there's a part of my brain that automatically wants to explain what happened around it.

What the argument was about.

What had happened beforehand.

What mood he was in.

What I'd said.

What he'd said.

But none of that changes the sentence.

He strangled me until I blacked out.

There isn't an explanation that makes that okay.

Then?

He threw a can of Irn-Bru at my face.

And broke my tooth.

And it still wasn't finished.

He Took My Phone

He took my phone.

Left.

Then came back.

Started again.

Left.

Came back again.

I never knew when it was actually over.

That's something I don't think I'd understood about fear before.

It's not only what somebody is doing to you in that moment.

It's what happens between those moments too.

Listening for the door.

Listening for footsteps.

Watching their face.

Listening to the tone of their voice.

Trying to work out their mood.

Wondering whether saying something will make it worse.

Wondering whether saying nothing will make it worse.

And even when they leave?

You don't relax.

Because they might come back.

And he did.

How Had This Become Normal?

By this point, I had been dragged down eleven stairs.

Thrown from beds.

Pinned down.

Had an electric screwdriver put towards my eye and catch my face.

Had my head pushed into a car window.

Had my phone thrown into a field.

Had a car door kicked into me.

Been pushed out of a car.

Been put back into that car while a stranger was trying to phone the police.

Been strangled.

Driven to an abandoned house.

And now?

I'd been strangled again until I lost consciousness.

Then had a can thrown at my face hard enough to break my tooth.

And somehow?

The relationship continued. 

I think that's one of the hardest things for somebody outside an abusive relationship to understand.

Because when you read it as a list?

It's obvious.

Leave.

Run.

Never go back.

But I wasn't living a list.

I was living days.

And the days weren't all the same.

Violence.

Sorry.

Normal day.

Argument.

Affection.

Accusation.

Violence.

Apology.

Gym.

Dinner.

Laughing.

Fear.

A cuddle.

Another argument.

Another promise.

Another accusation.

Repeat.

The good moments didn't cancel out the bad ones.

I know that now.

But at the time?

The good moments gave me something to cling to.

Every time the lovely version returned, I thought:

There he is.

That's him.

That's the real person.

If we could just get rid of the jealousy...

If he could just trust me...

If I could just prove I'm not cheating...

If I could stop doing whatever apparently triggers him...

Then maybe we'd be okay.

Except the problem was never that I hadn't found the right way to reassure him.

There was no right way.

And Then Came the Rings

Somewhere amongst all of this madness, something happened that sounds almost impossible when you put it beside everything else.

He put rings on my finger.

To prove that i am his.

Yes.

Really.

Fear.

Violence.

Strangulation.

Control.

And then:

Putting rings on my finger!

That was the world I was living in.

Nothing made sense.

The man who could make me genuinely fear for my life could also talk about spending the rest of his life with me.

And because I'd spent years confusing love with forgiveness, loyalty with endurance and hope with evidence that somebody might change?

Part of me still wanted to believe in the future he was promising.

But the control wasn't easing.

It was getting worse.

There would be more arguments about social media.

A second phone.

Cameras inside my home.

More injuries.

More strangulation.

A knife.

A blowtorch.

And eventually, something that still terrifies me when I think about it.

The bath.

Because soon, not being able to breathe wouldn't only mean hands around my throat.

Soon?

There would be water.

And by then, I would genuinely believe there was going to come a day when he wouldn't stop in time.

Next: The Bath