Mark’s girlfriend is abusive. She is controlling, jealous and spiteful. He told me this on a night out. While people laughed and danced nearby, Mark downed pint after pint until he was drunk enough to confide in me. He said he was going to end the relationship. I called the next day, but he didn’t answer. I sent him a message, but got no response.
The following weekend, he was with her. When I asked him what had happened, he acted confused and embarrassed, as if he didn’t know what I was talking about. Six months later they are still together. Nothing, it seems, has changed.
Why do people stay in abusive relationships? In a way, it is an obvious question. It was asked about Niamh Nic Dhomhnaill, who bravely waived her anonymity when her ex-boyfriend Magnus Meyer Hustveit was given a seven year suspended sentence for repeatedly raping and sexually abusing her in her sleep. Halfway through their relationship, Nic Dhomhnaill woke up and realised she was wet with Hustveit’s semen. She confronted him and he apologised. But the abuse continued. Why did she forgive him? Why did she stay for as long as she did?
On the one hand, it is a valid question — it seems important to understand what motivates people to hang in there, particularly if the victim is not married to their abuser. On the other, there is an element of victim-blaming here, a suggestion that the victim, not the perpetrator, is facilitating the abuse. It’s a question I would have asked — until it happened to me.
The 2005 National Study of Domestic Abuse found that 15% of women and 6% of men in Ireland had experienced severe abuse from a partner. Severe abuse was defined as “a pattern of physical, emotional or sexual behaviour between partners in an intimate relationship that causes, or risks causing, significant negative consequences for the person affected.” The same study found near parity between men and women when it looked at all aspects of abuse — 26% of men and 29% of women had experienced some form of abuse, whether physical, sexual or emotional.
Intimate partner abuse happens to people across the social and economic spectrum. Both victims and perpetrators can be men or women, straight or gay, young or old. In the last issue of Hot Press, we reported on an open letter written by Alice Glass, former lead singer of Crystal Castles. In it, Glass discussed her experience with physical and emotional abuse at the hands of a partner, and warned her readers that this can happen to anyone: “I want young women and young men to understand that this kind of treatment of others can happen where it might be least expected.”
The last person I expected it to happen to, was... me. I am one of the 29 percent of women in Ireland, who have experienced intimate partner abuse. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me because it was a long time ago, and compared to Niamh Nic Dhomhnaill, I got off lightly, experiencing emotional and minor physical abuse.
I’m going to do something I never otherwise do in this column and that’s use real names. This is because I need to give you some background. My abusive ex is Australian, which is relevant. His name is Craig. My current boyfriend is Australian, and I have a second Australian ex, as well as a few male friends from Australia. They are lovely, decent human beings, so I don’t want anybody I know to think I may be referring to one of them.
I had been in Ireland for about a year when I met Craig. For the first few months everything was great. Then we had our first argument. His friend Alan had arrived in Dublin. Alan flirted with me all the time. If I am being honest, I liked the attention, and I probably, almost definitely, flirted back. I didn’t think it meant anything until Alan asked me to have sex with him. I said no. After weeks of persistent pestering from Alan I told Craig. He accused me of being dishonest and underhand. The problem was, in a way, maybe I had been dishonest. I’d kept Alan’s behaviour a secret.
Here’s one reason people don’t leave abusive relationships — they blame themselves. I blamed myself for encouraging Alan. Craig claimed he couldn’t trust me, and I felt guilty enough that I accepted that. I didn’t realise until much, much later that this was merely an excuse, and that Alan was almost certainly flirting with me at Craig’s behest to test me.
I’m not sure exactly when the abuse started. At first it was little things — criticising my outfit, the amount of food I ate, the way I behaved. On more than one occasion he told me I had been rude to cashiers or waiters, but he would wait until hours later, so that I wouldn’t remember the details clearly. I have many, many flaws, but rudeness is not one of them. No matter how much care I took in my interactions with people, Craig always found something to criticise — my tone was sharp, my expression was impatient, I forgot to wish them a good day.
That brings me to a second reason people don’t leave abusive relationships — in many instances, they have been ‘gaslighted’. Gaslighting is a form of mental abuse. The abuser twists information with the intention of making the victim doubt their memory – and in more extreme examples, their sanity. There were many, many instances where Craig would accuse me of keeping things from him, but one in particular sticks in my mind.
Before I met Craig I had a fling with a man named Gareth. We soon realised we were better as friends than lovers. All our mutual friends knew; Gareth’s girlfriend knew; it wasn’t a secret. Nevertheless, one evening, Craig accused me of failing to disclose the full extent of my relationship with Gareth. He was furious. He called me underhand and dishonest, again, but this time he also called me a slut. He demanded that I cut all ties with Gareth, but I refused. This turned out to be a smart decision — not least because we are still friends.
Despite the fact that I was an underhand, dishonest and rude slut, Craig asked me to marry him and move to Australia. Abusers often isolate their victims and cut them off from sources of support. Although I did not yet understand that my boyfriend was abusive, I did know that going to a country where I had no family or friends, except for him, was a bad idea. I said no.
He suggested we get married and stay in Ireland. His Irish visa was nearly up and unless I married him, he would have to leave. Again I said no, and I subsequently excused a lot of his behaviour as a consequence of my refusal.
Over the next few weeks, he sent long, nasty emails telling me he hoped I would get raped or get HIV. He sent longer emails apologising, telling me how hurt he was that I wouldn’t marry him. He ditched me in the middle of Cork; he texted my sister to say I was having a mental breakdown; he read my messages and emails; he disappeared for days at a time; and he asked me to marry him, again and again and again. When he realised I wasn’t going to change my mind, he slapped me in the face. I slapped him back. He moved out, got a UK visa and went to Leeds.
That should have been the end of it. I told Gareth what had happened. He said the words “emotional abuse” and everything became clear. That’s a third reason people don’t leave abusive relationships — often, they don’t realise that what they are experiencing is precisely that: a form of abuse. It is hard to accept that someone you care about, who claims to care about you, is an abuser. And for many people, the last thing theywant, is to be seen as a victim.
I cut off contact with Craig and blocked his email address. He created new ones. He threatened suicide; I got emails from his worried friends; he sent a photograph of an engagement ring he had bought for me; he sent a confirmation from Thomas Cook and told me he had booked a week at a luxury resort in Greece for us. It turned out that the receipt had been Photoshopped, there never had been a ring, and he had faked the emails from his concerned friends.
One evening I received about fifteen messages from men I didn’t know. Craig had placed an advert on a sex contact site, purportedly from me, asking for help to fulfill a rape fantasy. I texted each and every one of them back asking where they had got my number. Only one responded, and told me where I could find the ad. The ad described what I looked like, where I lived, and detailed a desire for rough, forced sex; any resistance from me was part of the fantasy. Craig had not returned my house key and the ad promised to post the key to whoever agreed to be my rapist.
I considered calling the Gardaí, but what could they do? I had no proof, Craig was in the UK, and you could possibly argue that no crime had been committed. I did what I could. I moved house. I changed my number, and my personal email address, but I couldn’t change my work email. Every time I blocked him, Craig created a new address. Sometimes he berated me, sometimes he apologised, mostly he threatened me. I ignored it all, but he didn’t give up for years.
I don’t like talking about this time in my life, because I don’t recognise myself. Once you step back from an abusive relationship, you can see it clearly. It’s not so easy when you’re in the middle of it. Whenever I have told anyone, they have reacted in the same way — incredulity, then questions.
The incredulity I understand. I have always been a “don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining” kinda girl. I guess I understand the questions too. I have reasons, sure, and explanations, but I don’t have an answer that satisfies anyone, especially not me. But maybe that is the point.
So, next time you read a newspaper report about someone who was abused, raped or murdered by their partner — and there will be a next time — don’t ask why the victim didn’t leave. With nearly a third of Irish men and women being victims of abuse, you know someone who is currently in an abusive relationship. Think, instead, about how you might discuss these issues when they do arise.
There are valid questions that we all need to ask. Why isn’t emotional abuse a crime? Why is there almost no support for male victims? Why don’t the Gardaí take domestic violence seriously? Why isn’t there more funding for shelters? Why is the Director of Public Prosecutions unlikely to charge perpetrators? Why are sexual abuse sentences so low? Why are we, as a society, not doing more to help?
Ask as many questions as you want — but don’t ask a victim why they stayed.