What Happens After Domestic Abuse? Part 1: Living on the Other Side of Fear

Of the many messages I receive, there is one question that comes up again and again.

What happened next?

As my book, The Other Side of Fear, ends with my arrival in Spain, many people are curious about what followed. How did I rebuild my life? What were the long-term effects of escaping domestic abuse? And what is my life like on the other side of fear?

I arrived in Spain in the summer of 2016 with my daughter Elif*, who was nine at the time, the white minivan I had bought in Bodrum and two suitcases containing the few belongings I had managed to grab before leaving Turkey. My friend Marie*, who had kindly offered me a place to stay, was away when I arrived, leaving Elif and I alone in her apartment.

Marie’s Spanish-style apartment with its wooden shuttered windows, traditional tiled floors and ceiling fans was cool, quiet, and peaceful compared to the heat, traffic and bustling streets outside. A wall of exhaustion immediately hit me as the adrenaline of the past few months drained away. I didn’t have to keep going anymore. I didn’t have to worry about where we were going to stay, or what we were going to eat, or where we were going next. For the first time in months, I gave myself permission to relax. I made Elif a snack, found her a cartoon on the TV, and told her I was going to have a lie down.

That turned out to be an understatement, as for the next few days, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan as exhaustion flooded my body. My limbs felt like they were made of lead, and every movement was an effort. When I did force myself to get up, I moved slowly, purposefully, using every ounce of energy to perform the task at hand; preparing food for Elif, taking a shower or forcing myself to drink a glass of water before collapsing back into bed.

It was early evening, a few days later, when the doorbell rang.

I dragged myself out of bed and peered through the peephole.

A man with a concerned expression stood on the landing with a bottle of red wine. I assumed he had the wrong apartment and opened the door. The man grinned at me.

“You must be Carrie,” he said in a lilting Irish accent. “I’m Seamus*. I’ve come to cut your hair.”

Seamus, it turned out, was a friend of Marie’s who she had told about my Turkish nightmare, and, unbeknown to me, had been anxiously awaiting my arrival.

“Thank God, you’re alright,” he said, walking past me into the apartment. “I’ve been so worried.”

Seamus poured us both a glass of wine and sat me on a chair in the middle of the room. Equipped with a pair of scissors and the stereotypically Irish “gift of the gab,” he snipped at my hair while chatting easily about his life in Spain, his mother, his sister, his hairdressing awards and his successful salon in the UK. When he’d finished, the three of us went out for dinner.

“There’s a picnic tomorrow with my Argentinian friend Lucia,*” he told me, “You should come.” Despite still feeling like I’d been hit over the head with a sledgehammer, I agreed. Apart from Marie and now Seamus, I knew no one in Spain. I needed friends.

Lucia had the kind of quiet, capable energy that made me trust her immediately. She knew bits of my story from Seamus and listened intently as I answered her questions and filled in the gaps.

“First, we need to get you a national identity number,” she said. “Then we’ll apply for residency. You’ll need a tax number and a bank account. We need to find you a place to live and register Elif in school. We need to register your car in Spain. And you’ll need a job. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

I gazed around the park at the people going about their lives; walking dogs, doing yoga, couples hand in hand, as the seemingly insurmountable task of starting my life again beat down on me with the late afternoon sun.

The next few months passed in a blur. The crippling exhaustion was soon joined by panic attacks that struck without warning. I’d be making breakfast for Elif or browsing the supermarket shelves when I’d suddenly find myself unable to breathe, my throat closing and my chest being crushed from the inside as a wall of blackness descended across my mind. Despite the constant fatigue, sleep eluded me, and when I did finally drift off,  the same nightmare woke me without fail. A hammering on the door. Serkan's* face contorted in rage. A desperate panic as I used all my strength to push the door closed and turn the deadbolt before he invariably pushed it open again. I awoke drenched in sweat, my heart racing as my sleep evaporated into the night sky.

Gradually, I made friends, forcing myself to be social even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. It was other women who held me up. Lucia took over the notoriously complicated Spanish bureaucracy, organising appointments, telling me what paperwork I needed to bring, where to go and what time. A friend of Marie’s rented me her apartment. A larger-than-life Indian woman called Nayani* found me my first job, helping teenagers with their English homework in the evenings.

During the day, while Elif was at school, I wrote. What had started as scribbled passages in the blank pages of one of Elif’s old school notebooks soon became page after page as my story poured out of me. I bought a laptop and filled my days typing out the events of the past two years as they replayed in my mind like a movie. It became a compulsion. A catharsis. A way of making sense of what had happened. When the words were on the page, they weren’t in my head anymore.

In the evenings, after Elif went to bed, I would pour myself a glass of red wine and switch on the TV. In the silence and solitude, it wasn’t long before the tears came. This was the only time I allowed myself to think about Cem.* To feel. To process. To grieve.

One evening, Elif appeared in the doorway. I hadn’t heard her.

“Mum, are you OK?” she said, a look of shock and worry on her face. I hurriedly wiped my eyes.

“I’m fine, Sweetie,” I said.

It was at that moment that I decided. I had to be OK. To get back up. To keep going. To make a new life. For her.

Who knows what would have happened if she hadn’t walked in that day? Would I have allowed myself to become swallowed up by pain and regret? To sink to the depths of bitterness and anger? Would one glass have become two? Three? A bottle?

Thanks to my daughter, that day, I made the choice to keep going.

“I was aware that the full impact had yet to hit me, that my mind had mechanisms in place, shielding and protecting me from feelings I was not yet able to feel. It occurred to me that I had been numb, to a greater or lesser extent, since that night, and I wondered if I would ever feel anything again, or indeed, if I wanted to. Like a burn victim, the bandages were wrapped thick over wounds that were layers deep. In the coming months and years, they would undoubtedly unravel to reveal the full extent of the damage. Would it hit me slowly, like coming round from an anaesthetic? Would the pain be sudden, searing like ripping off a band-aid? Would I scream? Cry? Fall apart? Find solace at the bottom of a wine bottle?”

Excerpt from The Other Side of Fear

Slowly, step by step, brick by brick, I began to rebuild my life.

Spain became home. I made friends, started work, and even began dating again. My childhood dream was always to be a writer, and after teaching English for a few years, I embarked on a career as a freelance health writer and published my first novel, The Other Side of Fear, last year.

It was a life I would once have never thought possible.

Over time, the panic attacks stopped, and the exhaustion lifted. I had friends, boyfriends, and a job I loved. Above all, I was free. I had escaped unscathed. Or so I thought.

The shadow of abuse is far-reaching. Like many people, I thought that once I escaped my abusive marriage, my problems would be over. It is only now, ten years on, that I am becoming aware of the long-term effects.

In my next blog, I’ll talk about the long-term impact of domestic abuse, including the physical symptoms, the effects on the brain, the impact on relationships and complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD).

*Names changed to protect identities