Voices of DWC: Leaving Was the Easy Bit, Living Wasn’t

Anonymous

When I read Michelle’s first article, I thought, I know that feeling. Then I saw her new one — Freedom Doesn’t Come with a New Address — and I swear I nearly said out loud, “Are you talking about me, Michelle?”

I’ll be honest, I hummed and hawed about putting my name to this. My son and daughter know everything — no secrets there — but I’m not quite ready for my grandchildren to know the full story. Some things need a bit more time, you know yourself.

When I was younger, I spent years disappearing from myself — fading into the wallpaper of my first marriage to a man who drank more than he spoke. Life revolved around his moods, the clinking of bottles, and the hope that maybe tonight would be different. I became small. Quiet. Careful. I stopped existing as me and became whatever kept the peace.

It was my elder brother who saw through the act. He turned up one afternoon, helped me pack a single suitcase, and drove me away — me and my two toddlers in the back. I still remember that silence in the car. No words. Just the wind against the windows and the weight of something ending. I told myself that freedom was what I’d found — that a new home, a new name, even a new marriage, would somehow make me whole again. But I carried the damage like invisible baggage.

Three more marriages followed. Each time I thought, this one’s different. Each time I swore I’d learned. But each relationship only showed me another piece of myself I hadn’t healed. I wasn’t just escaping men — I was running from my own shadow. I mistook independence for healing, busyness for recovery, and silence for peace.

It’s taken me decades and a few hard lessons to realise that leaving the abuse was only the start. The real work was learning who I was without the fear. Abuse destroys, yes — but being unhealed keeps the destruction alive. You start repeating patterns, confusing chaos for passion, and mistrusting calm because it feels strange, almost empty.

Now, at 65, I can finally say I’ve stopped disappearing. My fourth marriage is one of comfort, companionship, and a quiet sort of healing. I’m not who I am because someone rescued me — I’m who I am because I finally stood still long enough to face what was left. The broken bits. The messy bits.

Healing isn’t about escape. It’s about staying put with yourself until you no longer need to vanish to survive.

Ah sure, there’s a bit of hard-earned wisdom in me yet — better late than never, eh?