Chilling figures that show a surge in domestic abuse are beginning to emerge as couples spend enforced time in their homes together during the Covid-19 lockdown. Ten women were killed by men* (five of the victims were within married couples) in the UK between 23 March, when government lockdown restrictions began, and 6 April. The National Domestic Abuse hotline, run by charity Refuge, reported a 25% increase in calls in the same period, and between 26 March and 1 April, Women’s Aid experienced a 41% increase in users visiting its Live Chat site, compared to the previous week.
I fear that these statistics will tragically worsen over the coming weeks, as more and more women suffer increased levels of abuse at the hands of their partners. I know, from personal experience, what it is like to live like this, and the prospect of doing so 24/7 is unimaginable, with potentially devastating consequences for thousands of women.
Within weeks of me saying my marriage vows and having a simple band of gold slipped on to my finger, my life became more complicated. Lovingly prepared home-cooked dinners were angrily rejected by my new husband because I hadn’t predicted his preferred meal that day. I’d dress for a night out and be told he didn’t like my choice of outfit. Phone calls to old friends began to feel uncomfortable as he lurked nearby, monitoring my conversations.
I naively accepted these foibles as the reality of married life: the human flaws surfacing after the veneer of dating falls away. In reality, what I was experiencing, I recognised many years later, was coercive control. Since December 2015, this emotional and mental manipulation of someone in an intimate relationship has been formally recognised in criminal law as a corrosive form of domestic abuse – and often, as it was for me, too, a precursor and adjunct to physical violence.
Gradually, he chipped away, artfully alienating my small circle of friends, manipulating me to his moulded vision of wifely submission, undermining all my independent decisions, actions or emotions. After a while, weary of the daily commute – and perhaps subliminally hoping that I might restore some of the magic in our relationship – I began to work for myself, from a desk in the spare room of our cottage.
But my new-found liberation from corporate life had the opposite effect on my domestic life. I became a prisoner in my own home, answerable not to a boss but to an increasingly demanding husband, fuelled by spiralling alcohol consumption that made him more volatile than ever. The slightest thing might trigger his rage, leaving me in a state of heightened alert in his presence.
It was no longer a jibe or the silent treatment that came when I made the mistake of occupying the bathroom if he wanted to shower, but an angry fist punched through the ceiling or a hand around my neck, pinning me to the cold tiled wall, my feet hovering inches from the floor.
The stench of alcohol on his breath that accompanied a slightly maniacal glint in his eyes meant I knew I was likely to wake the next morning with a tender, dark purple patch somewhere on my body. I took to wearing rollnecks and scarves, even on warmer days, and was using concealer in industrial quantities. My wrists were often red raw from his vice-like grip, and my eyes were pink and puffy from the constant crying. Sunglasses became an essential accessory. I lost count of the vases and pieces of crockery that met their end after violent contact with the wall or floor. I began to fear I might suffer the same fate.
The darkest days came when the violence wasn’t “merely” a shove, a slap or even semi-strangulation but brutal, demanding, agonising sex against my will, that left me gasping and streaming tears into a pillow that I wished would suffocate me. It was, of course, rape. Even between spouses, non-consensual sex is a traumatic assault: no less of a crime than a harrowing attack on a stranger.
After 10 increasingly turbulent years, my living hell ended in a court injunction and a prolonged, acrimonious divorce. The wounds have healed but the scars will always remain. Today, I fear for the millions of vulnerable women and men around the world who will struggle to escape abusive partners.
*Compared to just over three on average over the same period in each of the years from 2012 to 2019, according to the femicide census
How to get help
Anyone can be a victim of domestic abuse, regardless of gender, age, ethnicity, socio-economic status, sexuality or background. If you are worried that your partner, or that of a friend, family member or neighbour, is controlling and abusive, seek help. Louisa Rolfe, the National Police Chief Council’s lead for domestic abuse, said this week, “No one is expecting you to be locked in an abusive relationship. This is a priority for us, and if you call us, we will respond.”
Familiarise yourself with the Silent Solution system
This is a system for victims of domestic abuse who are worried about putting themselves in further danger if they are overheard when calling 999 from a mobile phone. An operator will ask which emergency service is required, but if you can’t speak out loud, then your call will automatically be transferred to the Silent Solution system. You will hear an automated police message, which lasts for 20 seconds, then press 55 on your keypad. The system will detect your location and identify an emergency, signalling the call to the relevant police force.
The National Domestic Abuse Helpline, 0808 2000 247. Women’s Aid offers Live Chat (1000-1200hrs, Monday to Friday). ManKind (helpline for male victims of domestic abuse), 01823 334244. Galop (LGBT+ community), 0800 999 5428.
In Australia, the national family violence counselling service is on 1800 737 732. In the US, the domestic violence hotline is 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). Other international helplines may be found via www.befrienders.org
