Last Word

Last night, after finishing the 'Peril' blog and going to bed I dreamt about him. I dream about him far too often for peace of mind and they are the sort of dreams that wake you up with a start and make falling back to sleep difficult if not impossible,.Yet in last nights dream I wasn't scared. I was strong and brave and he just faded away and my dream took another, much more pleasant route. I can only assume that writing about it confronted some internal monsters and I took away their power with the power of writing. Quite the warrior! So what if its several years (decades) too late.

Normally I will avoid anything to do with domestic violence. Nasty, draining subject that makes me very uncomfortable. My job means that I come into contact with its victims on an almost daily basis so if I see a documentary, or a newspaper article on the subject, I switch over or turn the page. When I have training with organisations that work with the perpetrators and victims of domestic violence I put on my professional hat and try not to indulge in any self pity as I recognise scenarios and identify with the helplessness of the victims. Recently I was caught unawares when DV was sneakily introduced into one of the soaps that I watch. 'Coronation Street' has a storyline where one of the nicest, most lovable, sympathetic characters, Tyrone, is the victim of his girlfriends violence. Tyrone was also a victim of child abuse, his mother played with over the top 'Kylism' by the actress Margi Clarke. When his mother left him as a young teenager he was taken in by Jack and Vera who provided him with a safe loving home and he has grown into a fine young man who works hard, cherishes his friends and is kind and loving. What struck me most (please excuse the inappropriate pun) was that after his girlfriend whacked him with a kitchen utensil, the conversation they had after the attack - her begging forgiveness, while at the same time, managing to imply that it was his fault, and Tyrone's incredulous, sicked, saddened and shocked disgust. It was the conversation I never had. Thinking back there was a couple of big subjects we didn't talk about. Yes, we talked about the kids, family, friends, holidays, films, music etc but we didn't talk about the attacks or sex. We just did it (not at the same time, we would wait until the bruises had faded and my resentment had abated. Usually. Yet I suspect there were times when I needed sex to make things 'better' but I will kid myself that that never happened. See how being a victim of DV is a sick, ugly thing to be?) The DV was terrifying and the sex was mostly nice but an open, honest conversation would, I'm sure, have made a huge difference to our relationship. I suppose to have those sort of conversations requires a large dose of trust and, looking back, that was missing.

He, foolishly as it turned out, trusted me totally not to cheat on him. Likewise I never questioned his fidelity. But that sort of trust isn't the trust I mean. That trust is just the shell of the 'trust nut' if you like. It is the trust under that superficial coating that really takes a relationship to another dimension. I am talking about the 'seed of trust'. We lacked the trust that means you could share things in a safe environment, a trust that means you wouldn't be judged, a trust that means it is OK to disagree, that difficult conversations can happen, secrets can be told. The trust that secures you as a team, a trust that means you would never intentionally hurt each other and, if you do so unintentionally, the trust that makes it possible to forgive. The trust that means it's OK to take risks and the trust that the love wouldn't be sacrificed on a whim.

Anyway enough of this self indulgent nonsense. I promise this is the last word on it because maybe now I've written this down I'll never wake up again in the middle of the night with the feeling of fear and dread that I am back in that place waiting for his judgement and punishment.