Six years. 72 months. 2,190 days and I’m still not freed, on the 25th of this month it will have been 6 years since the scariest day for me.
Having finally told my family and getting the help I needed we planned it all. I had an excuse to get out of the house because it was my sisters birthday, something which now I also oversee and I feel awful for it but it’s no longer her birthday it’s the day I left him.
She had planned to take my daughter out for the day so she wouldn’t be near any of what was to come, my family then awaited for him to leave for the day and we all went in and packed up my home.
I remember my father dismantling my daughter’s cot and other furniture to take it all with us. I’m so grateful for those little things, I now see in my job that many women aren’t able to do this. Many women run with the clothes on their back and I really do take my hat off to them.
I was lucky I suppose, I got to take what was important, all my memories, my photos, my daughter’s baby box and her clothes.
I looked back as we left and our front room, never a happy place for me but it looked even more sad, it looked empty and forgotten about. For a split second I questioned what I was doing, all I could think was how angry he would be when he got back. I then remember that room resembled me, sad and lonely with nothing left inside.
With that I left.
It wasn’t long before he was calling repeatedly and threatening me, even threatened my father that he’d burn his house down.
For several months we moved away, he didn’t see our daughter for a while nor did he ask. For those several months I was free.
Little did I know I’d be more afraid of him today 72 months later than I was that day I left.