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 “minimised my crimes” and even “romanticised stabbing my ex” because I made a few jokes in my forensic psychology counselling sessions. Well I’m sorry, I don’t feel guilty love, but maybe because getting your skull booted in every week isn’t something most people would just sit back and accept. That would make anyone “antisocial”. 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 when he got caught in the crossfire. I said he shouldn’t have got in the way then. 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, coercive control and rape destroys lives, some women don’t make it out alive, men 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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