Going Back. Again and again.

I wrote about my personal experience of Domestic Abuse here. It wasn’t easy to stare in the face and put down on a page, but I felt compelled to after reading many other articles from survivors; I didn’t want them to feel they were alone. I also wanted to try to highlight the fact that it can and does happen to so many women, from many different backgrounds and circumstances.

More recently I have encountered a swathe of the ‘why doesn’t she just leave’ rhetoric. I often comment on those Twitter conversations and online debates, or respond to blogs, my hope being that I can at least offer a perspective from someone who knows why they didn’t leave. Or did, but returned. Because that was my experience. I stayed and returned a number of times for a multitude of reasons, but looking back it was mainly due to exceptionally low self-esteem, so when the lies came flooding in about “change” and “undying love” I wanted to believe, because I didn’t want to be alone. When I write this, I realise how pathetic it must sound and it gives me an insight in to why many cannot understand. Because in truth, now I am out of the lion’s den even I struggle to fathom why I stayed for so long. I can see why the incredulity exists.

But the thing is, my reasons for staying are not the same as every woman’s. Every experience is unique, they often bear similar hall marks, they often follow a pattern-but the reasons for remaining with an abuser are manifold. Having talked to a number of survivors and having assessed my own experience in detail through therapy, it really is a complex web. Many women will be trapped in emotional turmoil, not wanting to harm their abuser, not wanting to separate their children from its other parent. They will have economic reasons for staying-this particular government are cutting lifelines right left and centre for women in these situations. Many women will literally not realise the behaviour is abnormal-they will have become normalised to the abuse-they may have grown up with it and their relationships with abusive partners becomes a continuation of those experiences.

Every time I read a comment that calls out the “why does she stay” it reaffirms the myth that the victim is to blame, remove yourself from the path of the fist or out of earshot of the “you ugly fucking bitch” then you’ll be just fine. It is in no way different to telling a woman to cover up, wear the right clothes and she’ll avoid being raped. Abusers abuse, this is what they do, if they aren’t abusing one woman, they will find another to replace her, nothing that their victims do justifies this.

The high-profile cases in the media of abuse against celebrities garner a worldwide catalogue of responses, with the Domestic Violence survivors, charities and those who understand the dynamic calling for support of the victim and everyone else on the other side, either blaming or turning the other way. How on earth we can expect victims of Domestic Violence to come forward, accuse their abusers, set themselves free, it’s beyond me. When STILL we think as a society that it is on any level the fault of the abused we fail those victims. We fail the ones fighting to leave and we fail the ones still stuck in the nightmare.

 

Sorry. A fully loaded word.

“Sorry”. Such a small yet loaded word, a word that can change everything.

As a child you’d be admonished with a “say you’re sorry” to finalise an argument. To put it to bed. And often you’d say sorry to do just that, but you wouldn’t really mean it, it would be forced. Being forced to say I love you doesn’t work-you don’t feel it just because you say it, so why would sorry? Forgiveness is not something you can force a person to ask for, any more than you can force a person to offer it or accept.

And yet, and yet…We seem to think that an online apology will save the day, will make it all better. That atoning for our “sins” of prior misdemeanor, of our lack of consideration can be fixed with a “sorry”. I guess it all depends on the context. Because when I read a person apologising for being a certain way I often, if not always, question why the apology is being made. Is it because they were caught out? Is it because they feel it will make them appear better, saintly, worthy to lay themselves out, prostrate? Or are they genuinely sorry for any hurt they may have caused. Because an apology which is qualified with a “but” or an apology that is thrown out there as a way of halting a debate-as a way to deny a comeback is not an apology. There is no sorrow felt by the “apologizer” for the harm caused by the original reason for the “sorry”.

I see it day in and day out, in my personal interactions in real life, on-line, and in the media-people apologising and therefore thinking everything is peachy. It’s not. Firstly, apologies require an acceptance to become valid, without it they are just words into the ether, they do not become weighty and of value until they have resolved the conflict and healed the person harmed. Secondly forgiveness is not a pre-requisite, if your apology is not accepted, that is no reason to then feel justified in your original attack, the apology should be unconditional to the forgiveness.

And if you truly are sorry for “any unintended hurt you’ve caused”. Then that’s what should be said, ideally privately. Because it so often feels divisive when people so publicly chuck about the “I’m so sorry” followed by the “Look, look at me, I said I was sorry, how generous and benevolent am I?”  And the  “Look, look I apologised and they refused my apologies, what more can I do?”.

And what if we’re not sorry? What if the things we’ve said mean that although we get that it’s not OK to hurt another person, what if we’re not OK with apologising, that we don’t feel we’re in the wrong? I think there is an innate code of conduct that we all live by and I have my own moral code. But I will not be lectured to by people I don’t know, who don’t know me, who I owe nothing to, who owe nothing to me on how I should or shouldn’t interact with others. It’s just not reasonable, nor is it helpful. When a person is hurt it can be hard to articulate that without being defensive, without retaliation. We all behave in ways we wish were different after the fact. Even so, I still firmly believe it isn’t my place to police another person’s reaction to hurt. If they want to say sorry that’s their call, if the recipient of the apology wants to accept, equally that is literally none of my business.

We could all do with taking a step back when we see online or real life debate that’s spiralling, because when we try to own another person’s quarrel, all that happens is a dilution of their power. Be a friend by all means, when asked to, step up and support, but who on earth am I to decide if someone needs their battle fought? Who made me arbitrator and crown prosecution. That’s right; no-one did.

 

Being Kind.

How much time do you spend either talking to yourself or working through ideas in a form of a dialogue? I spend hours, in conversation with myself, managing the pros and cons of any given decision I need to take. Or any prior decision I’m reliving.

And how much time do you take questioning yourself, challenging, judging? How much time do you spend criticizing and berating? I spend a long time, way too long doing this.

And now, how much time do you spend doing that to other people? Outwardly, probably not much, internally a fair bit I expect, but in terms of what you say and how you say it I doubt you tear other people down as a matter of course. So why do you do it to yourself? I’m currently trying to figure out why I do it. I’m not a bad person, I try and be kind, to be caring, to look after those people I interact with, so why the self critique? I’m not sure yet, but I know it’s not OK.

I believe we have a duty of care to ourselves. We have these bodies that have grown around us and within the hard sturdy exterior are some pretty fragile and soft parts and they need protecting. It’s complex, I appreciate that. But something that’s dawned on me in recent years is that I’m going to get one shot at this. Some experiences are terribly painful, but so many are unbelievably wonderful and they’re here, now, real and happening and I’m wasting time pulling myself apart bit by bit.

No more, I’ve got as much time left as I’ve had so far – should I be fortunate enough, and I want it to be a good experience. When someone tears me down it hurts and hurts a lot, so how can it be OK to be doing that to myself.

No more. I will be kind to me, I will be kind to others and I will be kind to you. That’s how it has to be and so that’s how it is.

A Year In The Life: A Poem

Sunshine
Languid heat, lethargy, nylon before lycra shiny in the brightness
A paddling pool with dirt and grass floating
Children leaping over and under
A muddy sodden patch on a shared lawn
Tears before bedtime, overwrought
Too hot with windows opened wide, long into the night

Over The Downs and far away
Crops are burning, acrid smoke making this child’s eyes water
Throat catching, compelling and hot

A mile from the sea but seaguls still visit
Citrus eyes stalking the overflowing bins
Rubbish bags piled on and on and over
The smoke and the stench of rot

The ten penny coat
A jumble sale find keeps the cold out
The days are shortening and the clouds roll in
Skinny arms and legs chap in the biting wind
Knee socks boiled grey, worn from many hand wringings

The stone clinking of glass marbles on a tiled floor
Fingerless gloves, leg warmers pink
The Box Of Delights
The hand me down eider down
The candlewick bedspread
The clothes on in bed
The breath you could see in your home
Hunger
Your prayer to spring

Light later
A forward clock
New shoots
The ten penny coat tied round waist
Sandles and bare feet
Sunshine

70s, 80s, 90s, Now.

1985-I’m 10, double figures, it’s a big deal. For my birthday I get pencils, paper, chalks, I’m ecstatic, I don’t get gifts except on birthdays and even at 10 I know I’m fortunate to have got anything at all. Another two years will pass before we are rehoused from our 2 bedroom council flat, with no carpets and all secondhand/donated furniture, no fridge and a 50p gas and electricity meter that often sticks. In the winter we have to wedge newspaper around the window frames to keep the cold out, there is often ice on the inside of the panes.

This is not a woe is me tale, this is not a sob story-this was just life back then. We were among the many millions of poor families living in Britain through the 70s and 80s. I don’t know if things were worse then, I’m not in that position any longer, I have a comfortable life comparatively, I don’t know from personal experience whether those who are equitably poor now experience those hardships but I am confident from what I’ve read and I’m told that they do. Certainly the systemic disabling of the welfare state is having that effect.

The parallels with our current state is clear, when Thatcher was in power there was an ethos of “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” but without a support network or nurturing societal attitude to back it up, it was a case of cut back on what people have and let them fend for themselves. I can remember clearly when changes to housing benefit, income support and the introduction of the poll tax meant we found ourselves without food or heating for a period of time, crisis loans were applied for and took time. My family borrowed and begged for help. Looking back I always thought my mum was thin because she ran around after us kids, she was thin because she didn’t always eat so that we could.

What was true then is true now, the have not’s had less and the have more’s continued to flourish. The poor were demonised and the rich heralded as the champions we should all aspire to.

My feelings about Margaret Thatcher are mixed, I feel no sympathy or nostalgia for her or her time in power, it was a tough and painful time for most that I knew and the values she and her party espoused leave me with an unpleasant taste in my mouth. But I didn’t know her, I just felt instinctively that she was bad, to be feared. But I did have a happy childhood, the memories of the summers as I grew up, the kids TV, they’re good memories, the people I was surrounded by made my childhood one I recall fondly. Is this government worse? I’m not sure it is, they’re all cut from the same cloth, it’s just we have further reaching communication tools to share the individual hardships and suffering. It was happening then, whole communities destroyed and left to rot. They say communities don’t exist any longer, so maybe the difference now is that it’s the individual that is left to rot and maybe that’s worse, you’re dying alone with no collective shared support. Surviving and dying alone.

I hear she cut a lonely figure in her final months, and many, many in our society are alone, they’re fighting a tide of change that is not designed for their betterment.  That is her legacy. The individual not the society. What a truly tragic state to leave in your wake.

 

A Little Thing You Didn’t Know About Me.

I write often about my life experiences-I do this because I want to make a difference,  my job isn’t earth shattering,  my reach isn’t far but I know how to communicate and I know how to listen. I hope that by sharing some of what I’ve lived this may in some small way help another person and then what I’ve lived will matter and so will I.

I’ve written about my child abuse and my domestic abuse,  I’ve written openly and honestly. You can see other posts on my blog for this.

But one area I’ve steered clear of is my disability.  The reason is because I’m no longer hindered by it, I’ve grown out of the physical impacts-I had a weak bladder through childhood due to pressure and nerve damage which eased as I grew.

I was born with Spinabifida. This is me, my back;

The impacts on my every-day life are small, I don’t feel comfortable in a bikini, I’d never undress in front of someone I wasn’t completely intimate with. The largest impact was on the birth of my son. The choices; epidural free 52 hour labour or be under anaesthetic – not present – for his birth,  I did it with gas and air. I did it, go me! But then I suffered horrendous panic attacks for months after, having gone through an episiotomy and ventouse delivery on gas and air. Would it have been easier without my scar? Yes. Did my Spinabifida make the experience harder? Yes. Did I ask the doctor at every opportunity and scan whether my baby’s spine was ok? Yes. But I don’t encounter the every day kicking that those struggling with disability do, I’m so, so fortunate.

After my surgery my mother was told I would be unlikely to walk, I walked, but late, and initially with difficulty,  there was minor nerve damage. But now, almost 40 yrs on I’m here and ok, those early operations took their toll, hospitals frighten me, pain even more so, but I’m here, live and kicking.

What prompted this post is the recent interactions on Twitter between many women from many backgrounds who I respect and care for. We all think we know a person,  we all think we know what makes them tick. Well I don’t, I don’t know but I DO CARE. I care about each and every woman trying to survive.  I may not always yell it loudly enough, but I really do have your back, and I hope you have mine, scars and all.

Fighting the good fight together.

Once upon a time there was a little girl, and another and another and many, many more. some were of colour, some were white, some were once viewed as little boys, but knew they were really little girls, they knew this and later when they were old enough to show and tell as well as feel, others could see and knew it too.

Just a short time ago, seconds in fact on the journey that is humanity - those little girls who soon became women could not be heard - those women from all around the world had no voice. The men of the world would not listen. Those women, in their thousands, fought to be heard and eventually some, not all, but some, were afforded a platform, a lower podium from the men who surrounded them of course, but a platform none the less.

Over time these women who were those girls gained more ground, they learned to shout louder, some even learned how to roar and their voices would echo around the stadiums, auditoriums and concert halls, but still they weren’t heard by many, there were too many materials made to soak up and muffle the sound.

So much other noise was clouding their voices, the sound of men, the sound of the world that had built up around them, designed to stifle and silence; the gloss and the steel, the shine and sparkle used to distract from the sounds from the mouth, the voice of woman, the voice of a girl.

They changed tack, they turned their voices to the page, they wrote and shared, they interacted, they debated, they fought the oppression, they ebbed and flowed on their different waves, picking a path through the anger and hatred that was heaped on them from all sides by many men, in many guises. The men who were their clear and present danger, the men who neither agreed nor disagreed, the men who stood blithely by, those men who were almost worse than the active haters. Those women who carried the torch for those sisters before tried so hard, they fought all day, every day.

And one day, one of the battalions in the army won its war. It earned the equality it had fiercely fought for. But the tragedy was how many other regiments didn’t. So many women were left on the battlefield, the war still being fought, so many women still up in arms at the daily struggle they were facing; racism, sexism, trans-phobia. These women did not have such large armies or such powerful artillery and they so badly needed their allies to champion their cause, to hold peace talks, to provide firepower.

But many women had grown tired from the constant battling, they had settled for a halfway house, a temporary measure. They had settled because good had to be good enough, they did not have the energy, they had enough to get by, they had enough to cope in society. Their sisters still fighting understood but resented that they didn’t stay and stand with them. They struggled with good being good enough. They understood but found it so very difficult to accept.

The factions disbanded, went their separate ways, they carried on the fight in their own ways, some small, some larger, all important, all vital. But the army that should have been the biggest in the world was not and could not be. And so the war went on and all the players in the fight against oppression and patriarchy had to live with the little victories, knowing that the uprising that had long been hoped for would not come and the victory would be a long way away, if ever at all.