Bipolar Mum Journey

Growing up as the daughter of two addicts, I learned early that survival sometimes meant silence. As I navigated my life, that silence became more than just a way to protect myself. It became an expectation, a rule enforced by a system that prioritised powerful men and disregarded my story. Each time I tried to stand up, to speak my truth, to demand justice, I was dismissed, minimised, or entirely disbelieved. It was as if my pain was only a footnote, not worthy of being truly heard.

This reality hit hardest when I took men to trial over a deeply traumatic SA case. There, in the courtroom, the men who caused my pain were able to use charm, money, and status to paint themselves as innocent. Their word carried weight, while mine seemed to dissolve under the biases of those deciding the case. I was the one reliving my trauma on the stand, but they were the ones who walked away free. It was as if the system, the same system that’s supposed to seek justice had already chosen their side. They wore their facade, flashed their titles, and charmed the people in power, while I, just trying to survive, was painted as the unreliable one.

And it didn’t stop there. I saw the same patterns repeat in other areas of my life. In relationships, I tried again and again to be heard, but my voice never seemed to reach anyone who could help. My abuser, a man who had every appearance of success, was somehow able to spin a narrative that served his interests at every turn. He pushed me to the edge, chipping away at my self-worth until I was barely standing. When social services and the police got involved, they looked at his job title and his outward appearance and saw a respectable father. What they didn’t see, or chose not to see, was the bruises on my spirit, the pain beneath my resilience. I became, in their eyes, the “unfit” one, while he the charming and well-spoken was rewarded with a level of trust he had never earned.

When he was later accused of violence against other women, my story came rushing back, though it was a bitter validation. I knew this man, I knew his methods, and I knew the harm he was capable of. But by then, his actions had already taken root in other lives, as they had in mine. Time and again, he was protected by a system that chose his side. This wasn’t just coincidence or bad luck; it was a structure, a patriarchal structure that makes power a birthright for some and a fight for survival for others.

The injustice continued, even in places where I was supposed to be safeguarded. When I was incarcerated, a prison officer, a figure meant to enforce boundaries exploited his position, manipulating my vulnerability into a so-called relationship. In reality, it was anything but that. And when it came to light, he faced a slap on the wrist, a mere community order. Meanwhile, had I been found at fault, my prison sentence would have likely been extended, an extra layer of punishment on my back. The message was clear: men in authority get leniency, while women in hardship get further buried.

It’s painful, too, to see how the very men who now rally around issues of SA specifically targeting grooming gangs in the UK were nowhere to be found when I needed them. They use other survivors’ stories to advance their own agendas, not for justice, but for division, turning trauma into a weapon. When I sought justice for my own assault, my white counterparts, the people who are the loudest now, weren’t standing by me, they were hurling racial slurs at me.

I’ve seen firsthand how easily some people will twist a story to fit their own beliefs, using victims’ pain to push hate instead of accountability. This isn’t justice it’s manipulation. I don’t want my story or anyone else’s to be hijacked as a justification for racism or hate. “Down with the patriarchy” doesn’t mean feeding into the agendas of those who see trauma as a political weapon. It’s about challenging the structures that create inequality, not just against women, but against any vulnerable voice that’s drowned out.

So what does “down with the patriarchy” mean to me? It’s not about being against men as a group. It’s about being against a system that lifts certain men up, even when they’re tearing others down. I’m against the unearned power that some men wield with impunity, and the voices of women that go unheard, no matter how loudly or desperately we speak.

Patriarchy isn’t just an idea; it’s real. It’s in the courts, the police stations, the social services offices, and even in prison cells. It’s the system that told me my voice wasn’t worth believing, that my pain wasn’t worth punishing. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I can’t wait for anyone to hand me that belief. I have to claim it myself, to speak my story again and again until, hopefully, others begin to listen.

“Down with the patriarchy” is my rallying cry. It’s not anti-men, it’s anti-silence. It’s a call for justice, accountability, and a society where all of us, regardless of gender, are valued and heard. I am reclaiming my voice, and though it’s been a long time coming, I refuse to let it be drowned out any longer.