A Violent Chapter

I was young and afraid, so I let it continue far longer than I should have. I met him when I was 18, living alone in Perth, and going through some huge emotional changes in my life. He was 26 and to a young, naive and impressionable girl with no self-confidence he seemed to have it all going for him. And so of course I was quietly thrilled when he followed me back from Perth to Hobart. An 18 year old had no business moving in with a 26 year old man, but I did it anyway. We even got engaged!! And then he started to show his true colours.

Not that there hadn't been clues, his older brother had served jail time for violent behaviour and his father disciplined both his sons with violence. But I dismissed all the clues or explained them away because as insecure as I was I thought I needed to be with someone and if it wasn't him maybe no-one else would want to be with me. Unfortunately the violent reality was starting to hit home. I lived in constant fear of making him angry and what he would do.

And so I sat for hours this one last night, terrified, with my back pressed against our bedroom door hoping he wouldn't be able to get in. My right eye was already swelling shut and both forearms were throbbing and I knew they would be badly bruised. I was convinced that if he got through the door I would end up in hospital or worse.  So I sat there and listened to him yelling, threatening what he would do to me if I didn't open the door, throwing things, punching through plaster board and even through one internal door.

The front door slammed and suddenly it was quiet. But I sat for another half an hour too scared to move in case he was waiting to push the door open as soon as I did.  Eventually I mustered the courage to move and cracked the door open. No sign of him in the unit.  I ran to the phone and called my dad to come and get me as fast as he could. Within an hour we had my belongings packed into his car and were heading back home. Thankfully there had been no sign of my violent fiancé as we left.

The next day the phone calls to my parents house started. Abusive calls accusing them of turning me against him. Denying the violent behaviour. Professing undying love!  Thank goodness I had finally learned my lesson and his words fell on deaf ears.

It didn't end there. I lived in constant fear. He would stalk me near my workplace. Six months later I had moved into my own place and would find him waiting outside for me to get home from work. Or he would wait for me at my car. It got so bad that work colleagues started taking it in turns to escort me home. And my dad would wait outside work whenever he could to drive me to where I parked my car.

The police said there was nothing they could do unless he hit me again and there were witnesses. I told them I was terrified that if he did hit me again I wouldn't survive the encounter. They still did nothing. It took well over 12 months from that terrible night before he stopped stalking me and moved back to the mainland. 20 years later I was still seeing his face in crowds and the fear would resurface. It hasn't happened for several years now so perhaps I have finally closed that terrible chapter of my life. I hope this post has helped me to finally let it go.

It's never over

I read a blog post by another cancer survivor a few weeks ago and it really struck a chord with me. Since then this post has been slowly crystallizing in my head. Finally it's time to get it out!
 
The thing about cancer is that it's not over when you finish chemo or radiation. It's not over when your hair grows back and you look like your 'old self' again. It's not over when you get the all clear on your first annual check. Or your second.

Cancer affects you long after it has supposedly left your body. Fatigue, preventative drugs with their associated side-effects and the constant vigilance. The emotional drain of facing your mortality, the frustration of a too slow recovery and the realisation that you will never be your old self again. Not to mention the medical bills...

But surviving cancer is still hailed as a victory, something to be celebrated.

And cancer survivors are too often hailed as heroes, the physical embodiment of the words strength, courage and determination.  So much so that survivors are actually expected to act that way.

Stay strong.  How many times did I hear this during my cancer treatment?  So many times that I felt obliged to live up to it.  Keep your chin up. Think positive. We've all said them and we've all heard them. But have you ever stopped to consider just how these phrases intended to inspire us actually disempower us instead?

This week I received a gentle reminder from a good friend that sometimes it's ok to just be sad. And so I was for a while. And now I have picked myself up and continued on. In my own time and on my terms.  I wish I had allowed myself that luxury in the past instead of trying to live up to everyone else's expectations.