I first noticed him standing alone in the corner of the room, nursing a drink in his hand. He looked my way, with his baby blue eyes.
There was something so innocent about him, so vulnerable. I took a deep breath, walked over and said ‘hello’.
The sexual chemistry was stratospheric. ‘He’s The One,’ I thought. I felt winded, such was the intensity of the connection we had.
We talked and laughed for hours. Although the room was full of gorgeous models and actresses, his attention was only on me. When it was time to go, he promised to call. I went home on a high.
A few weeks went by and I waited, without any word. In the end I couldn’t bear it, I phoned him. He was just as charming. His honesty appealed to me. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t call. I want to take you out, but I was too embarrassed to tell you I’m skint,’ he confessed. He was between acting jobs and had little money. ‘Don’t worry’, I said. ‘I’ll pay.’
That evening we went to a popular bar where a band was playing. I noticed girls clocking him as he entered the room but, again, I had his undivided attention. It was intoxicating. He talked about our future lives together, painting a beautiful picture of our big house filled with lots of babies.
For a few weeks we saw each other every day, spending most of the time at my place, having lots of great sex. He told me I was what he’d been looking for all his life. He spoke of marriage and a long, happy life together.
Then: nothing. He went home to get some clothes, picked a fight over something I didn’t understand and slammed down the phone. I didn’t hear from him for weeks.
When he reappeared, it was like nothing had happened. He brought flowers and love-bombed me again with how much he needed someone like me in his life. Perhaps a more secure girl would have walked away from this hot and cold tap right there and then. But I was already too hooked on a drug that felt as powerful as any opiate.
It’s taken me decades to understand why I didn’t split up with him at this point. Instead, ours would be a whirlwind four-and-a-half year relationship that descended into a dysfunctional and destructive vortex.
It did lead to marriage and a baby. But, ultimately, it almost cost me my life when, years later, he strangled me. It sounds crazy, I know, but even after that, I went back to him.
Vivian now recognises that the relationship was an unhealthy addiction to someone who was unavailable to me. She said: 'I was chasing the original high I got from that charismatic, remorseful, attentive side'
I now see that almost from the start an unhealthy addiction kicked in. An addiction to someone who was unavailable to me. I was chasing the original high I got from that charismatic, remorseful, attentive side.
If I’d admitted this relationship was no good for me, I would have lost what I needed to feel good again.
I’m not alone in this. On various online forums, others — men and women — have described having had the same addictive experience that’s part of being in an abusive relationship.
Although I appeared confident and was starting to build a successful career, I was insecure inside. I’d grown up in a comfortable middle class world of expensive schools and holidays abroad and my parents were happily married, but I suffered from innate low self-esteem.
Ben’s words were what I needed to hear. I thought I’d found what I’d been looking for, someone to love me and grow old with me.
Although the hints were there that this relationship was volatile, I batted the truth away. In my mind, all he needed was me to rescue him. And that made me feel wanted and good.
On various online forums, others — men and women — have described having had the same addictive experience that’s part of being in an abusive relationship
An abusive partner operates as an emotional bait and switch. The romantic, wonderful person hooks and reels you in. Then bam! A lurch to this moodier side.
But no sooner do you get a glimpse of that, than it switches back and it’s all wine and roses once more. So it’s easy to get confused.
The bad behaviour is explained away. They had a ‘difficult past’ or a ‘traumatic childhood’. Past partners cheated on them. When it’s still early days, why wouldn’t you believe them, feel sorry for them?
Then you’re told their outbursts are about something you’ve done. In my case I might have been flirting outrageously with a man (whom I’d barely said one word to). So you change your behaviour to avoid upsetting your partner.
I started to see less of my friends who Ben implied would ‘be a bad influence on me’. I started wearing more conservative clothes, those he wouldn’t deem ‘slutty’. You do anything to keep the peace.
But no matter what you try, nothing works. They find another reason to blame you for their anger.
Then the first signs of physical abuse may appear. A push or a shove that comes out of the blue. But the thought of ending it and never seeing your partner again terrifies you even more than how they are treating you.
You earlier ignored the warning signs, now you deny the reality of the abuse.
Denial is aided by the fact their remorse is equal to the scale of any attack, verbal or physical. They sob, bring you flowers or chocolates to make up for it, vow to never do it again. Ben kept telling me he ‘needed my help more than ever to change’, which was music to my ears.
The highs and lows of abuse, followed by remorse, become a vicious cycle. After each dreadful low, you are desperate for a ‘fix’ to get that high again.
Slowly, it wears you down. You start to feel worthless, almost deserving of their anger.
Deep down I did feel shame. But I, like most others I’ve talked to, was good at covering most of it up. And in those days domestic disputes were seen as a private matter.
If I’m honest, my behaviour deteriorated, too, and I’m not proud of it. Whenever Ben pushed me away, the more clingy I became. When the cycle returned us to a calmer phase, I grabbed the opportunity to try to turn him into the man I wanted him to be.
When I got pregnant, Ben was elated. I thought: ‘This is what he needs to make him happy, this is what will make things work out all right.’ So, I agreed to marry him.
Four months later, he tried to kill me.
It happened after a row about nappies, of all things. I was frustrated with him being out of work. He needed to take more responsibility now we were to have a baby.
With a torrent of verbal abuse he started smashing everything in sight. A lamp shattered, glass spread across the floor. Then he turned on me.
I was just 22 years old and seven months pregnant when he pushed me down, pinning me under the weight of his 6ft 2in frame and putting his hands round my throat. ‘Die!’ he screamed, tightening his grip.
I thought this was the last face I would ever see. That the man I loved would murder me.
Then a desperate voice cried out. It was a terrifying rasping sound, squeezed out on my last breaths of air. Begging for my life. ‘Please. Ben. Please!’
They say your life flashes before you just before you die. My brain went into slow motion. I saw my parents coming home to find my corpse. It was visceral and intense. A white tunnel of light closed in around me.
How long I was unconscious for I don’t know, but I came to as he was dragging my body across the floor. I didn’t even feel the shattered glass as it cut into my flesh.
Then for some reason, he went to the kitchen and started smashing everything there. I fled for my life.
I walked into the nearest police station. My throat was swollen. In a hoarse voice I told them: ‘My husband tried to kill me.’
They took my statement and then me to hospital. They charged him with assault and issued a restraining order. (He would later be convicted and given a suspended sentence as a first time offender.)
It seems incredible to admit, but I let him back into my life shortly before our baby was born. It was a combination of fear, now I knew what he could do to me, and a yearning for my baby to grow up with a father.
He promised things would be different now and I wanted so badly for us to be the happy family he’d said we’d be.
I’ve since learned that if your partner has strangled you in the past, the odds of them killing you are nearly eight times higher.
On average it takes a woman seven attempts to leave an abusive man. I tried the first time when my son was six months old.
But the drug-like pull back to Ben was so great. It took a lot for me to accept that the risk of my death far outweighed that illusive high.
I left for good when my baby was one — taking just him and whatever I could fit into my car.
What changed? I had a sudden moment of clarity. If I loved Ben unconditionally, I had no right to expect him to change.
I was also a mother now. I had to give my son the best start in life I could. I didn’t want to bring him up in a violent home. That was just the first step to recovery. When you leave a toxic relationship, the withdrawal is agony.
You’ve been numb for so long and then a rush of emotions pours out at once. Shame, anger, loneliness, guilt. But you need to feel these emotions. You need to go cold turkey.
Unless you look hard at yourself, you risk going back to them. Or replacing them with a different drug, in the form of another abuser. Either way, like any addict, you risk losing your life.
This is not to victim-blame. An abuser is 100 per cent responsible for their actions. I didn’t fall in love with a violent man. I fell in love with a man who later became violent towards me. There’s a difference. It was not my fault. I know that. But abusers are adept at spotting and manipulating vulnerability.
You need to ask: why is it I still love someone who abuses me? Why is it I need to numb myself with someone who is like a drug to me? With someone who is no good for me?
I had to learn my propensity for this kind of addiction was in me way before I ever met Ben. Only then could I stop trying to fix him and focus on healing myself.
It comes down to self-esteem. With zero self-worth, we attract those who treat us as worthless. You need to understand what caused that and how you came to feel that you aren’t good enough.
As painful as this is, once you understand this and face those fears down, your insecurity melts away. Little by little you begin to love yourself.
I turned my life around. I remarried. Thanks to the lessons I learned from my relationship with Ben, I’ve spent 30 incredible years with a man who is my best friend. We also had a son. Both my boys have since grown up into beautiful, loving, well-adjusted men.
Ben still came in and out of our lives for a time. I chose to never say a bad word about him to our son. I’ve now not seen Ben in decades.
I forged a successful career, first as an actress in TV soaps and series, such as Prisoner Cell Block H. Then, as a news and current affairs reporter and foreign correspondent based in Asia.
Today, I am an executive producer, making documentaries for major UK, U.S. and Australian broadcasters. I’ve told other people’s stories and now I’m ready to tell my own story, as a survivor of domestic violence. It’s one many of my friends and closest colleagues don’t know about me.
I’m speaking out because the statistics are still shocking and unacceptable. Partners or exes kill two women every week. I could have been one of them.
I’m not a psychologist or medical professional, but I hope my story shows anyone can be seduced into a destructive relationship.
Even without any history of it, anyone can become a victim of domestic violence. But there are warning signs that shouldn’t be ignored. No love is worth dying for.
I am proof there is life after abuse. And it can be beautiful.
/Daily Mail/
More about: #women
