The Man in the Alleyway

Trigger Warning: This post contains references to rape, abuse and domestic violence.

“Don’t wear that outfit” 

“Take off that makeup” 

“Don’t leave your drink unattended” 

“Stay with your friends” 

“Text me when you’re home so I know you’re safe” 

Beware. Beware. Beware. 

There comes a time in every girl’s life when they are taught to beware the man in the alleyway. Seemingly overnight we go from being little girls who are afraid of fictitious monsters hiding under our beds to being grown women afraid of a very real kind of monster: the abuser, the rapist, the man in the alleyway.

Our mothers, sisters and friends dust us off before a night out like a soldier going into battle, their eyes scanning for anything shiny that might catch the monsters eye. We are given the cautionary tale, warned of dark alleyways, strangers, monsters without faces. Inhuman beings that beat, rape and kill.

Imagining abusers as fictitious monsters that lurk in the shadows of alleyways and exist only with the intention to hurt is somewhat easier to stomach. It would be simpler if not wearing a short skirt or avoiding a certain area at night would be enough to keep the beasts away, but those monsters that we are taught to fear are actually people just like us. Abusers can be the men who we love and admire, handsome men with bright futures ahead of them, our bosses, partners and friends. Men who make us laugh and smile and feel loved. This is a fact that I think many still find hard to swallow. It would be so much easier to stay clear of harm’s way if abusers really were monsters who we could easily spot and identify but the sad truth is that the men who hurt women are all around us. They are the man in the alleyway we’ve been taught to fear.

There have been two recent cases in the media that have proven to me that society still believes in the mythological abuser. There is the horrific Stanford rape and the abuse actress Amber Heard suffered at the hands of her husband Johnny Depp. Both cases were presented in the media as a mistake instead of the crimes that they in fact were. Society would have us believe that if you’re handsome, successful and privileged you are incapable of being an abuser. That there are monsters in alleyways and then there are valued members of society who happen to have made a mistake. If Amber Heard was married to a balding middle aged man with a beer belly and a job outside of the public eye, when she bravely stepped forward to talk about the abuse she suffered she’d have become the medias darling, but because her husband happened to be Depp she was labelled a liar and a gold digger.

Statistics tell us that you’re more likely to be abused by someone you know than a stranger. This isn’t always the case, but I happened to fall into that majority. I have a story similar to Amber’s but on a much smaller scale. I was in a blissful relationship for 6 months; I was the envy of all of my friends. My boyfriend and I were the golden couple and he treated me like a princess, until he didn’t.

He was a master manipulator managing to not only manipulate me but also those around me. He’d polish his crown and play the part of prince charming in front of my friends and family only to become the beast behind closed doors. After years of abuse and one of many attempts on my life, I managed to safely end the relationship and find the courage to tell my friends and family. Sadly, there were people who I called my friends who did not believe me.

“But he’s so lovely!” 

I’d hear them say behind my back.

“She’s probably doing it for sympathy” 

They’d whisper to each other.

“He just doesn’t seem like the type” 

I’d hear them say repeatedly.

When the people around me said that they didn’t believe me, when it had taken everything I had in me to tell them, it was like they took mud with sharp stones and jagged glass and rubbed it into the wounds that my ex had already created. The only thing more dangerous than an abuser? A society who isn’t willing to believe and is ready with an excuse.

When we don’t believe reports of rape and abuse whether close to us or further away in the bright lights of Hollywood we are sending out a message to women everywhere saying: if you speak up you will be ignored. When the media use words like “alleged” and “supposed” it is conditioning us as a society to question by default instead of support. If there is evidence in court that points to a conviction and instead the abuser is let off with a lecture and a slapped wrist it teaches men that treating women this way is okay. As of right now this is the society that we live in, it is one where who the true victim is often gets confused.

For a safer and more just world it’s important that we become more familiar with what abuse looks like. For the young men in our homes who we raise it’s important that we teach them about consent and respecting women and for the victims who we haven’t been able to protect it is important that we listen and that we believe.

Words of warning silenced, judgments cast aside, it’s time we shone a bright light into those dark alleyways and look our monsters straight in the eye so that we can better recognise the face of an abuser.

Disclaimer: It's worth noting that women also abuse men and other women in LGBT relationships. This post is just based off my own personal experience with abuse.

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Reclaiming Myself - One Strand at a Time

I have a weird relationship with my hair. For the last eight years I’ve had the same hairstyle keeping it long and alternating between blonde and red in colour, that may seem pretty normal for some people but I used to be someone who worked in a hairdressers and would constantly change my hairstyle, just for fun. I’ve experimented with pretty much every hair colour going (it was even hot pink at one point) and have played around with styles and different types of hair extensions but that all changed in my late teens when I lost my hair from stress caused by being in an abusive relationship. It would fall out in clumps when I washed it and would literally snap off when I tried to brush it, the long thick hair that I’d always considered to be my best feature ended up breaking off into a thin and wispy bob that reached my chin. It stayed that way for a good couple of years until I eventually broke away from my ex and it slowly became healthy again and began to grow.

I haven’t dared cut it or change it too much since then, always preferring to play it safe in case it got damaged again. It finally grew back to the length it was before it all fell out and I swore that I would never have short hair again. I didn’t want to look in the mirror and be reminded of that time; I didn’t want to see the person I was then reflected back at me. I’d even go as far as to say that my hair became a safety blanket that I could use to hide behind letting it hang over my face as I walked down the street. Having long hair was proof that I was healthy, strong and out of that toxic relationship, that I wasn’t the same girl that I was back then because I didn’t look like her.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to cut my hair. I’ve been admiring shorter hairstyles (I’m looking at you Taylor Swift) for the past few years and thought about how I’d love to have my own hair that way but was too afraid to, not because of how it would look but because I wasn’t sure how I’d react to seeing myself that way again mentally. This year, with the help of my counsellor, I’ve been reconnecting with the old me who I shunned when I came out of that relationship. It was like I couldn’t deal with being that person anymore so I let her go and created a new identity so that I could move forward. In therapy I’ve been working on reclaiming those parts of myself that I cast aside and placing them back into my personality, kind of like a jigsaw. Being adventurous with my hair is just one of the jigsaw pieces.

                     

Before and After My New Haircut

For me cutting my hair was about so much more than simply wanting a new style, it’s being okay with who I was back then and even allowing that girl a little room in my present, it’s also about embracing a new chapter in my life. It’s doing something I really wanted to do and not letting anxiety or bad associations hold me back. It’s about taking what once was a bad experience that was out of my control and turning it into a positive experience where this is completely my choice.

My family do this thing where when they see me making progress they say “we’re getting the old Jess back” for years I rejected and even hated that statement because I did not like the old Jess. She was the girl who was hit by her boyfriend, she was the girl who was manipulated, she was this version of myself that I hated being. For many years I’ve blamed her for the abuse and rejected her, rejected me. Now after a lot of therapy I look at that young girl and realise that It. Was. Not. Her. Fault. I realise that I even like her, she was strong and intelligent and got us out of a shit situation before it was too late. I might not be here writing this without her.

That day when I cut my hair was me accepting that girl back into my life with open arms. It was me picking up a heart-shaped, dusty old piece of jigsaw and putting it back into the space where it has always belonged.

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My Mental Health Treatment Journey Part 2: Therapy

This is the second part of my mental health treatment journey all about therapy. Make sure you check out part one about medication here.

Like taking medication, I was very reluctant to go to therapy. I think I was around fifteen when I went for my first therapy consultation and I was very self-conscious. I was worried that someone I knew would see me go into the mental health section of the hospital and tell everyone I was mad. Back when I was a teenager mental illness was still a very taboo subject that had a lot of misinformation surrounding it. There was no Depression, Anxiety, PTSD and OCD known to my friends, there was just sane and crazy and nobody wanted to be associated with the mad girl.

That first therapy appointment was a bit of a disaster. Back then I didn’t have a diagnosis and just assumed that I was depressed. My GP had referred me to the children’s mental health services at my local hospital and I remember being very nervous. This was the first time that I’d ever told a stranger my story. At the end of that appointment the lady I’d poured my heart out to for the past hour basically told me that she wasn’t really qualified to treat me. You see, what triggered my mental health problems was being in a mentally and physically abusive relationship with a boyfriend. I was essentially a child with a grown up problem that that particular therapist had no experience in handling. After weeks of getting my hopes up and psyching myself up to tell someone, I was sent away and told that I would need to see an adult psychologist. Sorry.

I was on the NHS waiting list for a good six months before a letter came through with an appointment to see a therapist at the big doctor’s surgery in my hometown. The only problem was my mental health problems had gotten so bad at that point that I could no longer leave the house never mind go to a place near where trauma had happened to me. After months of waiting I’d hit another dead end. I remember overhearing my mum on the phone to our doctor in tears begging him for help “She can’t go, I don’t know what to do” she whispered into the phone. He said that if I “refused” to go to the appointment there was nothing more he could do. Even my doctor didn’t understand that I desperately wanted therapy but I physically could not leave my house.

Deciding to take matters into our own hands, my mum found a local domestic violence support group who we got in touch with. They said they could send a support helper to our house for weekly appointments. I was so relieved to find someone who could help me. At the time a lot of mental health professionals had stopped doing home visits because of safety reasons (so I was told time and time again) so I couldn’t believe I’d found someone who not only had dealings with people who’d experienced domestic violence but who could also come to my home so I didn’t have to go out.

A couple of weeks after contacting the group a lady was sent to my home to learn more about my situation. I explained about how I was in an abusive relationship and how that had triggered some sort of depression. I was so hopeful that day but again was left disappointed. The lady didn’t seem to know what to do with me. All of her information sheets she gave me to read were about women who were married or have children and not for a teenager like me. At the end of the session she suggested making an appointment for both me and my ex to talk about the abuse because she wanted to hear his side of the story. The last thing I wanted was to see my ex again after finally breaking away from him. I had a huge panic attack and when she left I spent the rest of the afternoon in my bedroom in tears. I can’t explain how disheartening and lonely it feels to get knocked back time and time again when it comes to something so very personal.

With another road blocked off to me I went to see a new doctor who wanted me to get a proper diagnosis. A couple of weeks later I went to the mental health building at another nearby hospital to get assessed by a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with PTSD, Anxiety, OCD and Depression. It felt so good to finally know what was wrong with me. I went back to my new doctor with my diagnosis and explained to him about what I now knew was my Anxiety and PTSD making it impossible for me to go to places locally that triggered panic attacks and flash backs from past abuse. He was really understanding and referred me to a quiet little practice an hour’s drive from where I live.

Once again I was put back on the waiting list and this time it took eight months for me to get an appointment. By this point with no treatment for over a year I had untreated PTSD, crippling Anxiety, OCD and Depression. I was basically a recluse whose days consisted of debilitating routines and safety checks that could go on for hours. On that first appointment I had to share my entire back story again and was so scared that I would be turned away and told there was nothing they could do for me. At that point I was desperate for help. When she started talking about the type of therapy she wanted to do with me and asked me to make another appointment with her I burst into tears. I was just so relieved that I’d finally found someone who could help me.

The NHS gave me 24 appointments with my psychologist and she decided to treat me with CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) a type of therapy used to stop a cycle of negative thoughts and create positive associations with things that scare you. Having CBT is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I constantly had to face my fears and challenge myself. I described the fear I felt to my family as feeling the same way they’d feel if they were put in a cage full of lions. We focused most of my sessions on treating my OCD which was probably the most out of control at that point. It was incredibly difficult and I didn’t enjoy it one bit but I slowly noticed myself getting better and started to find things easier. I’m pleased to say that as I type this my OCD is now pretty much completely under control.

I was so disappointed when my 24 sessions were up because in that time I’d managed to tackle all of my little fears and was now ready to move on to the big stuff and we hadn’t even begun to treat my PTSD. I was advised to take a break from therapy for a while and put the new strategies I’d learned from CBT into place on my own. Both my psychologist and doctor thought that I’d really benefit from some counselling which at the time I wasn’t ready for. I knew that counselling was going to involve talking about the past and I’d just got to a point where I was starting to feel better and build a new life for myself. The last thing I wanted to do was to look back to where I started. I wanted to move forward and was determined that I could do so and I did. I spent a few years out of therapy putting the things I learned from CBT into practise in real life situations and continued to move forward on my own with the help of medication.

Last year I got to a point where I felt like I’d got as far as I could go on my own and now I needed some more help. I’d started to build a solid new life for myself and felt strong enough to look back. My doctor said that what I’d been doing was putting a plaster over the wound which fixed it for the moment and stopped it from getting worse but it was now time to take the plaster off, go in and clean it up and stitch it together properly so that it could finally heal.

Going to counselling was one of the bravest things I’ve ever done. I managed to find an excellent private counsellor. I didn’t want to have to be put on the NHS waiting list again, this time I wanted to do treatment my way and be able to have as many sessions as it takes. She knew my financial situation wasn’t great and so she very kindly charges me half her usual rate. Her house is in the middle of the countryside it’s so peaceful and I love going there. Together we’ve looked at my past and how that affects my present and how my PTSD being left untreated for such a long time made it dangerously worse. I trust my counsellor completely and have started taking my biggest steps in treatment under her gentle guidance.

For me, timing with counselling was everything. I think you can have the best counsellor to talk with who gives the best advice but unless you’re in the mind set where you’re ready to put the work in and be uncomfortably honest, you won’t get the most from it. It’s hard work and it’s so easy to miss an appointment or to hash over the truth. I know that if I was to start counselling back when I’d finished my CBT I wouldn’t have opened up in the way that I have now and said the things I needed to say. I was like the person who desperately wanted to be thin but didn’t want to do the diet or exercise to get there, it just seemed too hard for me back then, I wanted immediate results and none of the hard work. With therapy, unlike medication, the hard work is ultimately down to you. It’s difficult and leaves you feeling like your heart has been scrubbed raw some days but my god is it worth it.

If medication is my shield then therapy is my battle plan. It’s knowing what areas are going to be difficult so I can prepare, it’s knowing my strengths and putting strategies in place to get through the hard times. Now I’m at a place where I have my shield in hand and my battle plan in the forefront of my mind. The war inside my head is not over but I’m in the midst of it now and I’m not alone. I have trusty allies by my side and confidence in knowing that when the battle is over and the dust has settled I have a future waiting for me on the horizon and it’s one worth fighting for.

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What Makes Me, Me – Jess

I am a woman who has scars both inside and out.

I spent most of my teenage years in a physically and emotionally abusive relationship that broke me – or so I thought. In hindsight it made me stronger. I put myself back together again and created someone who I am proud to call me.

Although I’m not broken, the relationship left its scars that sometimes feel so visible that I want to hide away from the world because they’re a constant reminder of what once was. More recently I’m learning to embrace them. They’re marks on a map of the places I have been, although those places were hard, I survived them.

My mental scars surfaced themselves as PTSD, Anxiety, OCD and Depression. I used to be angry that the relationship triggered these mental health problems, but after spending time with my brilliant counsellor I’ve learnt that in my case they’re strategies that my brain put in place to keep me safe. They used to control me but now I am starting to control them.

I built a life for myself out of stories. I put up walls made out of books and called it home. Slowly, I started to let people inside. These people helped me take down the walls of books and instead placed them down as stepping stones that led to friendships and opportunities.

I am a woman, who as a girl, was made to feel that she wasn’t worthwhile, that she didn’t have anything important to say, but I’ve learned that that isn’t true.

I am on a journey in reclaiming myself. I’m taking back the reins of my life, that first my ex had a hold of, then my mental health. I’m finally placing them back into the rightful hands. I’m learning what I want from life, what I believe in and who I want to surround myself with. I’m learning that it’s okay to mess up because that’s how we learn what is important to us. I’m learning that sometimes you have to find out what you don’t want from life first.

I started Safe Space because I have a voice and it’s about time I used it without fear. I’m not perfect, and I’m bound to mess up and get things wrong, but I’m tired of letting my fear of imperfection hold me back. I feel strong enough now to reach out to the world and share my experiences of life so far in the hope that I might help a girl or young woman who has been through similar situations as me. I want to be that representative that I never had when I was sixteen years old. There are so many stories and voices that I don’t feel are represented enough in society so I decided to create a safe environment where these stories can be heard.

I am a combination of my highs and my lows, my mistakes and my successes, my qualities and my flaws, the people who left and the people who remain. Those are the things that make me, me.

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