AnalysisAs someone who left an abusive relationship, I was asked many questions. Here's what helps, and what doesn't
As Australia grapples with the rate of women dying at the hands of an intimate partner, you might wonder if you know someone who has experienced abuse in a relationship.
But for me, the more important question is — do you know what you would say to them, if they shared their story with you?
As someone who has left an abusive relationship, I suspect you don't.
In the wake of telling my story to well-meaning friends and family, I was met with a variety of responses.
Some of them were echoes of what we've heard before, such as "why didn't you leave?"
While that may have once been a common phrase, we are now far better educated — we know that it is very difficult for people to leave abusive relationships, and in some cases, attempting to do so can be fatal.
Other questions were less accusatory, but still caused me pain — "why didn't you call me?" and "how did it happen?" among them.
However good the intention, these questions can often make the guilt and shame more palpable, and force you to once again question your own actions and responses to the abuse.
As the country reckons with its rates of gender-based violence, we have been encouraging women to tell their stories, and to reach out for help.
What to say when you are on the other side of that conversation is talked about less, but it is something we need to address.
Everyone's different, and I don't have all the answers.
But I hope that by sharing my experience, I can help you know what to say.
The constant feeling of shame and regret
It took me a long time to leave my abusive relationship and by the time I did, my self-confidence was low.
I had friends and family who I loved but I'd pulled back, I'd withdrawn. I had children who loved their dad.
My constant pals were fear, sadness, shame, and regret.
The shame and regret are still with me; the others come and go.
I constantly feel guilty that I stayed for as long as I did, and shame about what my children experienced during that time.
The psychologist I see specialises in trauma, and I have been told that these feelings are common for people going through abusive relationships.
So when my closest friends and family asked those questions, with the best of intentions, I was quick to feel that guilt and regret all over again.
Even questions like "why did he do that?" and "how long has it been going on?" could bring it back up again.
The message I hear implied in these questions is that I could have or should have, seen it coming.
That I should have left sooner and got help.
But what I've come to realise is that people are asking these questions because they want to understand it and why it happened.
And why it's happened to someone they thought they knew, a couple or a family they'd admired.
The shattering of that illusion can be hard.
Then there are the questions women face from the police, the courts, the lawyers, from Legal Aid.
Their questions are more clinical, less emotional. They get straight to the point.
"Where is he now?"
"What happened?"
"Do you want to take this further?"
"Can you stay with friends or family for a while?"
The challenge of navigating the court system
Here is what I've learnt as an ABC journalist, as someone who speaks and asks questions for a living, and as someone who knows how to use language and who has a good support network.
It's really hard to speak up.
It becomes real. And you become a victim or a survivor — both terms that I don't relate to, that I'm uncomfortable using.
It's hard to admit that the relationship you built up is damaged, broken, and dangerous.
You soon realise the police aren't always going to come when you call, that they might tell you not to worry, that he probably won't come back.
You have to know what to say to get them there. You have to tell them to come, to take a statement, to make an incident number.
This sort of conversation seems easy to approach if you are not traumatised, living in fear. In that state of mind, every conversation becomes difficult to navigate.
And once your case progresses, the court system is cold and impersonal.
You have to be able to advocate for yourself, to hold in your emotions.
Getting a protection order is not easy.
You get a ticket, you fill out a form like you are applying for a driver's licence, while you sit surrounded by other shattered, broken people.
You sit outside a courtroom and wait to be called.
Then you are sat before a judge, where you swear to tell the truth.
And then you recount your whole sorry tale. Again.
You try to remember everything. The judge asks you questions you're not sure you have the answers to.
'It's unclear what a legal win looks like'
It is strange hearing your story matched to a precedent, to previous cases that have passed through, and to hear it validated in a court of law.
To realise other women and children have been here before and one will come in straight after you.
Then the judge explains the police will serve a protection order.
This can take some time — sometimes the person who abused you has fled or gone underground.
This is when you are told to lay low — the order isn't valid until it's served.
I wasn't prepared for what happens next — proving you are telling the truth and, in a way, negotiating your freedom.
Weeks later you return to the court and, depending on where this is, you'll probably have to walk through the same metal detectors and wait in the same foyer as the person who is accused of the violence.
The person with whom you once shared a life. A person you probably never thought you'd cower from behind a pillar in a court foyer.
In my case, the parties were led to separate rooms with their lawyers.
Some people can afford to pay a lawyer, some are represented by Legal Aid. Others are alone.
A court-appointed mediator goes between the two rooms to help the parties come to an agreement, like it's a property or contract negotiation.
And so begins the cycle of orders.
It's unclear what a legal win looks like.
Supporting a friend can take different forms
You leave the courthouse and so begins a new cycle of questions from family and friends.
"What now?"
"What happens if he breaks the order?"
"Should you get a dog?"
"Do you have security cameras?"
There's also the heart-breaking question from children: "Do I have to see daddy again?"
Once again, all of these are natural questions to ask in such a situation. They come from the best place, a place of caring and concern.
But I hope that by sharing my story, I can contribute to the calls for change we are hearing from so many corners.
Calls for police who are trained to understand when they need to stop by, and that they need to act to prevent more violence.
Support services that don't have long waiting lists and that are trauma-informed.
In the meantime, I urge you to consider asking other questions when confronted by the horror of a loved one who has been abused.
They are questions that may help you achieve more quickly what you're hoping for.
"Is there anything you need?"
"What can I do to help you feel safe?"
Or perhaps there's no question needed at all — just a hug, or a casserole left at the door, or a joke to make them smile.
The author of this article is an ABC journalist but has chosen to be anonymous to protect herself and her family.