29/05/2026
I am a survivor of domestic abuse.
For clarity, this is the 3rd time I've shared this. It will be annual. Because it matters more than ever. Based on mu last post and this being in my memories today, here goes again.
Still feel sick pressing the post button.
If you can please help by sharing. My last post sadly was also about violence against women, it reached 500k. People need to know ❤️
I've never said that out loud.
Until now I've never even written it.
Writing for 835 people to potentially read is easier than saying it out loud, apparently.
I'm working on that.
You will often read they words here.
"I'm working on that."
Each time I say them it means I acknowledge that that particular thing isn't ok at best, and definitely a problem at worst. It means that I'm actively doing the work to resolve it. Emotional work, trauma work, sitting with it work, the work of letting it go. All the work. Whatever that work is. Almost always that work sucks. What an understatement. Sucks. Doesn't even nearly describe what this work feels like. All the work is different granted, each difficult in it's own way. This work, this trauma, has been all encompassing and literally breath taking.
I've been trying to get this post out for 8 months. Nah, that's just a lie. Stop lying Lauz, something I'm gonna repeat a lot during this post. Internally or maybe written down. I write as I would speak. It's the best way I've found to be authentic. Right, start again.
I've been trying to get this out for at least 19 years.
I was silenced.
The who done the silencing might surprise you. It was me.
Well, I didn't actively silence myself. But, I played my part. I allowed my silence to exist. For that, as well as too many other things, I am deeply ashamed.
Shame is shining bright throughout this and for that, you got it, I am ashamed.
Brains eh.
Here's where it gets really f**ked up.
Another trigger warning, fulla them today huh. ❌Death❌
In August of last year my abuser died.
Without warning. 49. Dead.
This post isn't about him, it's about me.
It's not about the things done.
I will not name him ever.
This next part, I need to be very clear.
I am not naming him because it serves no purpose, not beceause we "shouldn't speak ill of the dead". Something people say to keep you quiet. You see, after the call, the one that I never seen coming. The one that instantly removed my being from my body. The one that stopped my breath in a sharp excruciating pain. The one that froze my mind. The one that made me feel like I'd been kicked in the vag and that I was no longer present on earth. That call, the one to tell me he was dead. After it, in between the panic attacks like I've never ever experienced, and, believe me I didn't think they could get worse. In between the uncontrollable sobbing and literally gut wrenching sickness. It hit me. I'd need to be silent forever. I would never ever be able to break my silence. A silence I didn't even really know I was holding. Not consciously anyway. "Don't speak I'll of the dead", with that realisation came absolute fire. Rage like I haven't experienced in a decade. Fury. Injustice. Utter and complete contempt. I was so f**king angry. My body was vibrating with actual violence. Memories came to me one after the other. With no respite. No consent. No permission. For the first time I wasn't remembering from inside the room, I was looking in. For the first time I could see how wrongly I was treated. How badly. What disgusting things my life involved and how many there were.
I thought I'd done this work 14 years ago. Counselling, check. Telling a little of my story, check. Creating a new life, check. Getting rid of him, well not quite a check because the truth is he stalked me and continued to try and scare me continually. My life was threatened often. My daughter's life. It never went away.
Have you guessed what this brought?
More shame.
Very quickly all of this became sadness.
The shock , the panic, the rage, the trauma, the memories. The realisation that he was dead. It very quickly became some of the deepest sadness I've ever felt. Sadness for me. Sadness for my daughter, who I'd failed. Sadness for every single woman I'd abandoned with my silence.
Sadness that my unconscious silence had been held from the age of 18.
Most unexpectedly, sadness for him.
Sadness for how he died.
Sadness that noone even noticed and it seemed noone really cared.
He didn't live a good life.
He certainly died a worse death.
So much sadness.
This part is written on a different day, for clarity. A bit at a time was necessary.
This chapter of my life has been mostly unspoken. I look back and wonder why. Now I deeply understand. Shame. I convinced myself it was easier. I made a conscious decision not to hurt or anger others who loved me. I didn't poke the bear, deliberately. That saying is what I always repeated to myself over the years. It turns out it was the man I didn't want to poke. Provoke.
It's the same. Not the bear. Take that how you will. My truth in reality is that I probably copped out due to shame. I'm accountable for that. I'm still trying to understand why it fell on me in the first place, I've accepted maybe I will never really know why it felt like mine to carry. What I won't accept any longer is the weight of it. Shame doesn't serve me. I refuse to hide this chapter in my life for one more day. I always knew the day would come when I'd have to write here about it. Not for one second did I think it would be as a result of him dying and I'm sorry for me that it's taken me this long. My plan was to do this at the time as it was fresh, I was so much angrier then though, so in a way it's best maybe it didn't happen. I'm not angry person, I do my best not to be. It took this long because ye see, the day after his funeral, I broke my back.
August last year was f**ked.
There's no other way of putting it.
I'm gonna finish, for now, on a question.
This isn't the last time I will speak about my experience of domestic abuse. Well, I hope it's not. I hope it's just the beginning. I hope I've now found the beginning of how to let go of the shame. I hope that me sharing my truth helps others realise the shame isn't yours to carry.
I hope I can forgive myself.
My question is this -
If we are too scared for our lives to speak whilst our abusers are alive, and we're not to speak ill of the dead, when do we get to break our silence?
I was told often during some counselling training never speak from the we, only the I. Let me rephrase.
If I was too afraid for our lives to speak then and if I'm not allowed to speak ill of the dead, when do I get to break my silence?
Now, I choose now.
I choose me.
I choose my daughter.
I choose every silent person.
I choose my truth.
This isn't about him, it's about me.
Choose you,
Mind Yersel' ❤️
*I'm 15 in the photo, I was 18 when that part of my life began. Sharing this post is terrifying. I hate that it's so long, but could never be long enough. If you got this far, thank you. ❤️
