*Content warning, themes of domestic abuse and sexual violence.

I met him in July 2014. At first he seemed like a genuinely good person. He was a single parent, looking after his kids, and he came across really nice, it was sweet seeing him with them. Within a few months he was wanting to propose, and as soon as he did, I was like, “Oh, this is great, this is a whirlwind, everyone wants that!” And literally as soon as that happened, that’s when he started trying to control me — who I spoke to, saying I always had to go round his — and then within the first, I’d say four months, the first assault happened. He was apologetic, said he wouldn’t do it again, so I didn’t report it. Then it happened a second time, and a third, and because it was getting worse I then obviously had to report it. 

I wasn’t allowed near him after that, but obviously we still communicated, because he kept telling me he was sorry, that he’d changed. So they had loads of evidence like video statements, and then he got put on remand. By that point I’d stopped staying there overnight, because he’d take my car keys, hide my phone, that sort of thing, anything to stop me leaving. If I did stay, I’d try and get my dad to come and collect me so I could get out of the house. 

When he came out, we communicated again, and he was like, “Drop the charges from before, because I’ve changed.” And as soon as I dropped the charges, it was horrendous: that’s when the violence really stepped up, and that’s also when the sexual assaults, including rape, started. 

He made me move in with him, and I knew he was going to end up killing me, or I’d most probably do it to myself, because I couldn’t carry on living there. So I booked a holiday for him and his boys and I left them at the airport. That would’ve been the end, but not long after, I found out I was pregnant. And as much as I wanted him in our son’s life, he wasn’t there for me. He still carried on, like, not giving in on what he wanted, trying to force me to have sex even while I was pregnant, and the stress of it caused bleeding. I nearly lost my son more than once. He was born six weeks early. 

Two weeks after my son came home from hospital, I went round so he could spend time with his dad, and he raped me again. That was the final straw that took us to court. I gave evidence, and he only got four years. He’ll be out this December. 

What it cost me at work

All of this happened while I was trying to hold down a job, and it cost me more than one, genuinely. 

I had to keep taking time off — for police interviews, for court dates, for my own mental health when the weight of it all became too much — and none of that counted as anything other than my holiday allowance. At one job, I’d already used all my annual leave by the time I found out I’d need two more weeks off for the trial in September. When I then had to take a few more days for my mental health on top, I simply got an email telling me I wasn’t right for the company and they’d let me go. No conversation about unpaid leave, no attempt to understand or work something out — just a blanket dismissal, because they knew I’d used up my holiday. It was a very fast-paced company so they just didn’t have time for this sort of thing, but that’s not how it should be. 

At another company — a large developer based in Manchester, but I was in the London office, which was really busy — I was doing well, managing a small team, when I had to tell my manager I needed time off for a police interview. I couldn’t go back in the Monday after, I felt too exhausted from it all. I told them I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t explain why at first, and then when I did try to explain, they weren’t supportive. I was still within my probation period, and they used that: they said I wasn’t going to be right for them, because the job needed a ‘hands-on person’. Then my probation got extended again over my timekeeping and absences, even though those absences were literally police interviews. I remember thinking, ‘If you’re extending my probation over this, why would I even want to stay?’ 

It felt, again and again, like companies were forcing my hand to leave, because until the trial was finally over, nothing was ever going to work anyway. Most of my managers were men, and however sympathetic they tried to be, the understanding just wasn’t there — they didn’t know how to deal with it. Clients would ask why I was off, and there was no good answer that didn’t put me in a difficult position. 

Only one job really supported me. When I needed to be signed off, my manager took that on herself rather than escalating it to the bosses above her. She even gave evidence in court for me, because there was a point she saw the bruises, she saw what I was going through. She shouldn’t have had to carry that on her own, but she did, and I’m grateful for it. Everywhere else, “support” meant being pointed to a generic staff wellness line,the kind of service that has no idea what to do with you the moment you mention domestic violence, because the whole picture of what they offer is built on non-domestic-violence stuff. 

What I’d want employers to know

I don’t think most companies have any real structure or process in place for situations like mine. Your handbook tells you exactly who to go to if you’ve got a grievance, or an issue with someone at work, but it says nothing about who to go to if you’ve been abused. And for a lot of people, going to your line manager isn’t the right option at all. 

I think every handbook should have a section on domestic abuse, with a named point of contact who isn’t your line manager. And I think it matters if a company’s in partnership with an organisation like Solace, to show they’re working with people who actually know what they’re doing — like a line in their mission statement, or a brochure. It would make more women likely to want to work there, and to stay. 

And every case is different. Some people are waiting through long court delays, like I was, others move through the system quicker but have other stuff going on. What we need isn’t a script for managers to follow — we need real options, like proper unpaid leave, wellness days that actually mean something, a go-to named person who understands the different stages you might be going through — and the choice to decide for ourselves what support we actually need. 

Where I am now

For the last year before the trial, I couldn’t work at all. I don’t think my mental health could’ve taken it, especially once the case got delayed. And around the same time, things fell apart at home — my relationship with my dad broke down and I’d been staying with him, so I ended up homeless. I spent about eight months in temporary accommodation before I was helped into settled housing. 

Solace got me into Luminary — a London Social Enterprise Bakery that helps to create jobs, community and support women who have experienced social disadvantage. I’m still here now, working at the bakery, two and a half, three years later. It’s been the one constant piece of real support through all of it.