I was 17 when my boyfriend pulled out chunks of my hair. His abuse still haunts me at 43

Telegraph

6 days ago

As I sit in the hairdresser's chair, she lifts some strands of hair to look at the condition, and I freeze. I can already feel beads of sweat starting to form on my back. She asks, 'Been a while since you've had it cut?' I nod. It's been 10 months. I say, 'I've got a sensitive scalp, so can you be careful while washing it, please?'
What I don't tell the hairdresser is that I dread anyone touching my head because 25 years ago, the man I loved ripped chunks of hair out while he was throwing me down the stairs. All because I didn't tell him I was going on a night out.
For years, I wouldn't set foot inside a salon without taking a beta blocker I was prescribed by my GP for situational anxiety. I grit my teeth as she lathers the shampoo, trying not to think of the sharp pain and tingling I was left with when he yanked my hair so hard that he left me with a bald spot. It has got easier to deal with my hair being touched by strangers, but I never expected painful memories to be triggered so long after the relationship had ended.
According to the charity Safe Lives, two-thirds of domestic abuse survivors experience post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) – more than twice the rate experienced by soldiers in combat. New research from the University of Glasgow has found that women who experienced physical abuse in the context of domestic violence risk ongoing mental health disorders despite the exposure to domestic violence having ceased, on average, 27 years before assessment.
The first kiss
I met Colin at work when I was 17, and he was 33 (which, to everyone except me, was a huge red flag). I thought I was wise beyond my years, and Colin was everything I was looking for in a mate: strong, funny, intelligent and charming. After a few months of working together, we shared our first kiss on the way home from after-work drinks. He showered me with affection and attention; when we weren't at work, he called and texted constantly, which was flattering at first.
Our relationship escalated quickly, and we were living together within three months. It took about six months before Colin became violent, but in the meantime, he had begun to manipulate and control every aspect of my life in ways that were nearly imperceptible at the time.
Controlling behaviour
We shared a bank account, but I was scatty and kept 'losing' my debit card, so he persuaded me it would be easier for him to give me a weekly cash allowance. I now think Colin was hiding my card all along.
We worked together, so we spent every waking moment in each other's company. He would subtly belittle me in front of colleagues, picking on my insecurities and reinforcing every negative thought I ever had about myself. He poisoned me against my family (who could sense early on that he was bad news), causing an estrangement that would take years to heal.
When my friends invited me out, he would guilt me into staying home, often claiming to be unwell. Friends stopped reaching out, and I became increasingly reliant on Colin. As this was my first serious relationship, I had no frame of reference or clue that his behaviour was troubling.
Horrifying violence
The first act of violence happened at Christmas. Colin was sick with the flu, and I'd decided to go to the office Christmas party on a whim without telling him. When I returned to our flat, I discovered I was locked out. I battered at the door, and when Colin opened it, I saw his face twisted into a shape I didn't recognise. He was drunk, and I knew immediately that he was going to hurt me.
He hissed, 'You've been with another man, haven't you, you sl-t?' as he grabbed me by the hair and threw me down a short flight of stairs. I banged my head hard, and it took me a minute to get back on my feet. When I did, Colin was standing before me with a chunk of my hair in his hand. Sobbing, I told him, 'I was at the Christmas party, ask anyone in the office,' but he just kept calling me a sl-t. I staggered down the stairs and into the cold December night. I had no idea where to go, I wasn't speaking to my parents, I didn't have any friends I could call. I just sat at a bus stop and wept.
After about an hour, I heard footsteps and saw Colin. I cowered, thinking he was going to hurt me, and he started crying. 'I'm so sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me. I am so scared you're going to leave me.' He knelt at my feet and begged for forgiveness, and I found myself comforting him, even after what he'd done to me. He was a master manipulator and lured me back with promises that he'd change, and it would never happen again. But it did.
We lived together peacefully for months at a time, then, as soon as he'd drunk too much or had a hard day, the violent rage would return. I lived in hypervigilance, barely talking in case I said something that would trigger Colin's rage. I lived in shame, not telling anyone about the abuse because I believed what was happening to me was my fault. I drank heavily, sank into a deep depression and would often feel disappointed to wake up in the morning.
The struggle to leave
People ask, 'Why didn't you leave?' and I did try. The main issue was that I had nowhere to go. Shelters were full, I still wasn't in a good place with my family, and I had no money. When I did pluck up the courage to leave at age 20, he threatened to take his own life unless I came back to him, another manipulation tactic. In the end, it took three aborted attempts before I left for good, after one final eruption of violence that left me physically scarred and fearing for my life.
When I left, I told him if he ever contacted me again, I would phone the police, and he could see that I meant it. I arrived on my parents' doorstep with my life in two bin bags and my mental health in tatters. Leaving was the easy part. Living with what had happened to me was much harder.
I lived in a state of near-permanent anxiety and had flashbacks at unexpected moments, like in the hairdresser's chair when my head jerked back as the brush found a tug in my hair. I was right back to that December night, cowering in fear, my scalp on fire. When I had a wisdom tooth extraction, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror for over a week because my swollen, bruised face reminded me of a previous attack.
I tried to push the memories down and get on with my life. After some time by myself, I started dating again, but found myself not only distrusting the men I met, but also my instincts. I had initially fallen for what I thought was a great guy, who turned out to be anything but, and was worried I was a terrible judge of character. However, at 21, I met Ronnie, a sweet man who was gentle, kind and understanding. We were married within six months of meeting, much to the surprise of everyone who knew us. I rushed into marriage partly to draw a line under my past because this new relationship came with a new surname and a move to a different city. My husband encouraged me to seek therapy because he had grown up in an abusive household and knew the lasting impact domestic violence could have.
Battling with memories
I had six sessions of NHS therapy and was diagnosed with PTSD, but that short course of treatment didn't 'fix' me. The therapy brought up a lot of intense and painful emotions, and I felt like I'd never be able to move past what happened to me. I didn't sleep properly for weeks after therapy finished. I felt hopeless and withdrew from my husband and my family, calling in sick to work and spending my days locked in the house, scared to go outside. I began to drink quite heavily one afternoon, pulling all the booze out to the cupboards that I could find. I wanted the pain to go away, and I would do anything I could to make it stop. I started raiding the medicine cabinet for painkillers, popping two handfuls of paracetamol into my mouth and washing them down with wine. I wanted to die.
At first, I felt relieved; my pain would soon be over. Then I thought of my family and the people who loved me. I couldn't face the thought of living any more, but I wasn't ready to leave them. I called my husband and told him what I'd done, and he rushed home from work to take me to the hospital, where I promptly threw up all over the waiting room. After some blood tests, the hospital discharged me with a number for the crisis team, whom I was to check in with for the next few weeks, and who encouraged me to be more open with loved ones about how I was feeling. I hadn't been honest about the extent of the abuse, even with my family, so I sat them down and explained how bad things had been, and why I had decided that death was preferable to living with the pain. They were shocked, but started to understand more about how that relationship had forever altered me. Sharing my story with them helped to unload some of the shame I had felt over the relationship. I thought I had deserved what had happened to me, that I had provoked Colin to behave like that, but it was never my fault.
I went back to suppressing my pain, mainly by drinking too much. My marriage ended after three years, partly because I had a paranoid mistrust of my husband. Every time my husband did something nice, I felt there had to be an ulterior motive because Colin was never kind for no reason.
A new life after death
I've worked hard to rebuild my life after abuse, but have struggled with romantic relationships. Giving so much space and energy to mistrusting and second-guessing a potential partner's every move was exhausting, and I knew I needed to take a break from dating. I haven't been in a long-term relationship since my mid-20s. However, I am open to dating in the future.
I've attended therapy on and off for years and began seeing a regular therapist in 2022, who referred me for specialist trauma therapy called eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing (EMDR). Instead of talking in detail about a distressing issue, EMDR instead focuses on changing the emotions, thoughts or behaviours that result from a distressing experience. Change didn't happen overnight, but the trauma no longer affects me as viscerally as it once did.
I thought I was doing much better, but then, last November, I found out Colin had died. You'd think I'd be relieved. It was over; he could never hurt me again. I made an emergency therapy appointment because I found that I was sad about his death. I couldn't understand why until the therapist explained I had spent a lot of our early sessions saying, 'If only he had changed, maybe we could have been happy,' but that was a fantasy. I could never have forced Colin to change; he had to decide to change on his own. Perhaps I was mourning a version of him that didn't exist.
Since Colin's death, I feel like I've turned a corner, mainly because the monster who haunted my nightmares wouldn't be coming back to get me. I am taking care of myself a lot better now; I quit drinking eight years ago and am trying my best to shed the heavy weight of past abuse and rebuild trust in others. I'm dating again, but I'm not putting any pressure on myself to find 'the one'. My life revolves around my friends, family, and my dog, a three-year-old spaniel named Bonnie, who gives me a reason to get outside as much as possible, which massively benefits my mental health. Things are less fraught when I go for a haircut, thanks to deep breathing exercises and restricting my trips to the hairdresser to twice a year. I hope I'll get to a point where the pain of the past won't be my whole narrative but rather a line in a chapter of my life story.
Perhaps one day I will even enjoy trips to the salon.