Born in 1964, in a village near Wolverhampton, I am a survivor of domestic abuse and violence. My innate personality is lively and outgoing, and that’s how I was as a child. But back in the sixties and early seventies, I was was seen as “bossy” and a “show-off” because that’s not how little girls were expected to behave. Being called bossy all the time really affected me. It planted the seeds of low self-esteem and shaped how my life unfolded. I grew up without any confidence in myself.

Looking back on my childhood, I can see how my grandparents, loving as they were, imposed their expectations on me. Born before the First World War, they believed a girl’s ambition should go no further than becoming someone’s secretary. I was encouraged to learn typing, but actively discouraged from aiming higher.

Now though, I’m a writer. By the end of 2019, I was busy promoting a stage play I had written and performed. The play, Green Door, was the true story of my life with Darrin Wright, my second husband—the man who abused me. We were preparing to tour Green Door across the North West. After successful performances in Salford in early 2020, we planned to take the play to Square Chapel in Halifax on April 2nd. But that performance never happened because, by then, we were in lockdown.

Thankfully, my team came up with an ingenious solution: they put me in a large, empty space and filmed me performing while maintaining a safe distance. We live-streamed Green Door on Facebook. I wanted to use the event to raise funds for the fight against domestic abuse, so I reached out on Twitter to find local organizations that could benefit from donations. Within minutes, someone pointed me to EdShift.

During the years Darrin abused me, my three young children lived in the same house. My eldest son has the clearest memories. At just 8 years old, he witnessed Darrin dragging me around the living room by my hair. My middle child was 3 when Darrin came into our lives and 9 when he left. I don’t know what he saw or heard—I have virtually no memories of his childhood. I believe my brain shut down parts of itself just to help me survive.

And my youngest? At only 8 months old, he was sitting in a baby walker in the corner of the living room when he witnessed an attack so violent that I count myself lucky to have survived. His conscious mind may not remember that assault, but his subconscious does. That memory still resides deep within him.

Today, my sons are grown men, and Darrin Wright is long gone. So, everything’s fine again, right? Not exactly.

My eldest, now 36, avoids showing emotion and associates me with times of intense upheaval. He has chosen not to have me in his life. He has a son, my grandson, whom I met when he was 6 months old but haven’t seen since.

My middle child, now 31, has never spoken to me about those years. He acknowledged Green Door and wished me well, but I don’t think he’s ever watched it. He struggles with depression, and I worry about him every day.

My youngest, now 23, struggled deeply with anger and aggression as a child. At 4, he would kick me and scream obscenities. By 5, on the football pitch, he spent more time kicking other players than the ball. At school, I received calls almost weekly—he was skipping class, stealing food, smoking, or fighting.

At 17, he declared himself homeless—though he wasn’t—and somehow managed to get housed by the council in a tiny flat in Halifax. Two and a half years later, having matured and learned some harsh lessons, he came back home.

Now, he’s much calmer, and our relationship is the best it’s ever been. But I still
spend a lot of money on life coaching for both of us, to help us heal and move
forward.

A domestic abuser shattered my family. I still hope that, one day, the scars will heal
enough for us to become the close, loving family I dreamed of as a young woman. In
the meantime, I support EdShift’s work because, my god, I could have used their
help 25 years ago.

It’s too late for my family, but it’s not too late for the women and children suffering
now. If I can help prevent someone else from going through what we did, then those
years won’t be lost entirely.

By Nathan McGill

YouthBase and Community Practitioner