Fucking hell fire, going through all this mental health paperwork is draining the last bit of life out of me. Every joke I’ve ever made is suddenly evidence of me being unhinged. God forbid a woman has a bit of character after life’s dragged her through the mill.
Apparently, I’ve been “minimising my crimes” and even “romanticising stabbing my ex” because I didn’t cry or apologise enough. Sorry, love, but maybe it’s because getting your skull booted in every week isn’t something most people would just sit back and accept. I used to wake up with this bloke on top of me in the middle of the night, that’s not consent, that’s sexual assault. His excuse? He didn’t know what he was doing. And stupidly, I believed him as he had a tendency to sleepwalk sometimes, and I thought because we were a couple, it didn’t count. But guess what? It bloody well does.
Then there’s the time I joked about accidentally stabbing my mate. I said he shouldn’t have got in the way. Turns out, I ended up being in a relationship with that mate for 17 years. I even told the forensic psych, “Don’t worry, I warned him to sleep with one eye open as did his mother.” That, apparently, is “romanticising violence.” I call it dark humour. I haven’t stabbed him since, and we’ve got three brilliant kids together.
He’s also never sexually assaulted me, his motto’s always been, “If you’re not in the mood, it’s not sexy,” and honestly, every man should take a leaf out of that book.
Domestic violence and coercive control destroys lives, some women don’t make it out alive. Men also kill women every day. I refused to be another name on that list.
People online have called me “criminal in a dress” or the “female Charles Bronson.” At first, I was mortified. Now? If it scares off creeps and keeps my kids safe, I’ll take it. Might even print it on a T-shirt.
Bipolar Mum Journey 
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