I am writing to document that it is possible to recover from a relationship with an Autogynephile and that women who are in these relationships, transwidows, are here for you. I do have a degree now, in behavioural science, I have learned how to unpack the power dynamics during years of counselling and address my PTSD. While I am frequently on Twitter throwing bombs and making comments, I am, like most transwidows, anonymous, because we have no choice. Our rights and experiences as women who have endured domestic abuse at the hands of Autogynephilic men, are ignored, by many parts of the gender critical community. I identify as a 2nd wave feminist. Germaine Greer is and will always be a hero to me. It has been 20 years since I left the worst relationship I had ever been in. 11 years with a narcissistic man who had a cross dressing fetish. I moved from living in a house with a narcissistic mother and enabler father, so I had no boundaries or understanding of what a normal relationship looked like, into a house with a covert narcissist. What I understood from all the counselling I have done over the last 5 years is that I simply walked into this relationship and was ripe for the plucking. I wasn’t equipped to say no, I did not have the self-esteem I needed to value myself before anyone else. There’s plenty of blame to apportion, but at the end of the day, the decisions I made as a naïve 20 year girl, are the decisions I made and I accept that. The aim here is to discuss what is normal behaviour vs abnormal from the point of view of a childhood trauma survivor that has processed abuse, acknowledges it happened and has grown from the experience. I wrote Simone’s story when I was in the middle of a mental health crisis, 5 years ago. I was reliving my trauma in graphic detail. Self-flagellation here, I'm embarrassed by how poorly it is written, but, it is my truth, warts and all. Flashbacks are weird. For me, I had memories that I knew existed but had attached no value to, because I had dissociated from that experience. So, during the crisis, the fear, the shame, the regret flooded me. These memories were not just from the abusive relationship I had been in with an Autogynephile trans identifying man, but also childhood trauma and it was difficult to unpick. However, a really good trauma psychologist is worth their weight in gold, providing you can find one that is not enmeshed with the gender ideology. Survivor Rule Number 1: Do not do Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Every emotion you feel, is valid, there is no need to reframe the negative thoughts spiralling in your head. Cognitive Behavioural therapy is not useful if you have experienced domestic violence or abuse, it comes across as gas lighting your lived experience. If you are a typical GenX/Millennial woman, brought up by narcissist boomers who tell you their abuse is to help you grow as a person and their emotional, medical and physical neglect will help you become independent, you need a trauma therapist. You need to vet any therapist you see, I saw one therapist through University who told me that the feelings I had about my ex needed to be reframed as I had to be positive about their experiences of transitioning from male to female. I found out later that this therapist was a gender affirmation specialist – guess that’s why he/they were a Uni Psychologist, perhaps touting for business. When you are in a relationship with a narcissist, you do not necessarily know it. Now there has been plenty of information out there on the internet about how narcissists pick their targets, but as someone who was ripe for the taking, how do people like us realise we’re being sucked in. Short answer is we don’t. Not until we’ve experienced it because until you know and understand that this happened to you, denial and self-doubt is your constant companion. However there are signs that something isn’t right. Survivor Rule Number 2: It is not normal to be blamed for everything in a relationship or in an argument or for someone to control your money, your access to the outside world. These are the three things that are targeted the most and this is where the cognitive dissonance rings true. If you are being questioned about where you go, what you do, what you spend your money on, this is the trifecta of all red flags I’ve written a few paragraphs so far and I haven’t really touched on the cross dressing aspect of a relationship with a man. Now, when I was younger, I grew up in a relatively progressive, left learning liberal family and was taught that we should accept people as they are. That whatever they like to do things behind closed doors that is harmless and most importantly, none of your business. Survivor Rule Number 3: Cross dressing is a fetish. It is a gateway to a narcissist who believes that they can dress like a woman to have fun at home. Then it becomes a means to engage in sex while dressed as a woman, and here you’ll be shamed for feeling bad or participating in sexual activity. Here is the issue with consent, you may say yes, but you’re not really consenting, but we’ll discuss that in a hot minute. Then there’s the idea that the person wants to be like you, dress like you, take over your interests, takes your make up, buys you lingerie in the wrong size and “oops” forgets to return it. Then the shaving of the armpits and legs “it’s hot in summer” growing of the hair “I love yours”, then it becomes, "I like being dressed as a woman, what do you think, do you think I will pass?" (I didn’t get to that stage, I left before that point, but we did get to the point where he told me: "I want to live like a woman and be one”. So the cross roads are approaching, you’re seeing the signs, but you don’t read too much into it because that’s not your spouse. You find the clothes that aren’t yours and it’s explained away as “so and so asked me to take it home for washing as their machine was broken” or “I forgot to throw out your old make up/lingerie”. You’re getting blamed for their depression, every mood swing feels unpredictable. You’re being gas lit every time you have a period and if you have PMS or PCOS or Endometriosis, your pain is minimised. Then questions are asked about your own sexual preferences. Who would be your celebrity hall pass of the same sex? Any answer you provide will be used against you, to question your own sexuality. Believe it. Survivor Rule Number 4: Coercion, coercive control: At some point in your relationship requests for sex which is outside the norm start. Will you have sex with your spouse dressed as a woman, will you use tools / items to penetrate them, will you please go on top and squeeze my bra covered fake boobs. Like NO. This is not normal. You do not have to say yes, if at all you feel bad, it makes you feel sick, weird, off, or you’re made to feel guilt. This is sexual assault. Plain as day, you can say “rape”.  It took me 2 years to use that word in context of my experiences when talking with my counsellor. If you say yes, because you feared saying no, feared the consequence of saying no, felt emotionally pressured or blackmailed to say yes, this is not consent. Everyone should look at the cup of tea video about consent and the analysis of coercion which is deconstructing the tea video, and provides further context. At this point I am going look at key point in this essay on how to survive an abusive Autogynephilic relationship with a positive affirmation that all people (because yes, there are gay / lesbian men and women going through this too) should reinforce. None of this is your fault. None of it. Women (more so than men) are socialised to be nice, accept differences and say nothing. I’m going to use Foucault, one of the founders of the bullshit gender theories about power. Someone with power, wields it over someone who does not have power, and this is regressive. Narcissists get in early and create a power difference where you are disempowered and become the oppressed. Weirdly enough, it was this lecture at the time at Uni that triggered my mental health crisis as the lecturer, seemingly disembowelled me in front of the class and described my abuse to me. I went from being “woke” in the new liberal sense of the word, to having my entire world blown up in my face and realise that trans women were men. Because even though it had been at that time 15 years since I left the relationship, the relationship had not left me (apparently). While my degree had been lovingly crafted as an homage to Foucault (or should I say FouCult, because Gender ideology is a cult ideology) and discourse theories, what it did was make me understand who had power and who didn’t. Ladies: WE DO NOT HAVE STRUCTURAL POWER. We’re low on the pecking order in the oppression Olympics – because most woke people will tell you, and for good reason, that women are NOT oppressed. Look, I guess we will, like all victims of our abusers, love them, live with them, agree with them in return for protection, for our children, for food and shelter. However, there is a disproportionate amount of middle aged white men are indeed, Autogynephilic, and there’s the elephant right there in the room with us. The oppressed middle aged man. Survivor Rule Number 5: Make a plan, long term, about 2 yrs. to deprogram yourself and create a way out. You can be inventive, you can use X to reach out to transwidows around the world and we’ll have half a dozen ideas on how to get out, based on our failed / successful attempts and what we would have done better. Deprogramming is harder. You have to emotionally divorce yourself from the relationship. Every night I would whisper to myself three times “I don’t love you”. Because it wasn’t love I was feeling, it was fear of abandonment, insecurity. My ex handled all of my finances and got me into debt, so expect that to happen. I took an entry level customer service job after not working for 4 years (he didn’t want me out of the house). I haven’t stopped working since – aside from study – but I just took the job. Change your phone number, email address, delete your existing social media as he’ll have people spy on you for him, open new bank accounts before you leave (I just changed my banking password). Expect to lose friends when you leave. It will be ok, just google transwidows and find a whole community out there who will provide you with unconditional support, shoulders to cry on, empathy, we are your pack. Survivor Rule Number 6: Do everything the opposite of what you did with him /her. If you start dating, find someone emotionally stable, that doesn’t worship the ground you walk on and love bomb you, that isn’t normal behaviour. That is how I broke out of the cycle. My marriage counsellor was horrified at my story and asked me how I broke the cycle, I did the exact opposite that I did before. If you have normal friends (i.e. people who will still support you after you have left the ex) ask them what is normal for men’s behaviour. When I started seeing my husband, he would remember details, small conversations, be polite, be kind, and be stoic and silent. I pestered my newly made best friend with questions about normal behaviour for blokes who date. My relationship nearly broke down because I never addressed my trauma. I still had behaviours where it seemed like I was reacting to abuse when there was nothing at all to react to, because, I had not dealt with the trauma. My doctor and psychologist believe I had PTSD. It’s not on my medical files. Because they supported me, I was put on SSRIs for 3 years while in counselling and I’ve been off them now for 18 months. I have normal reactions most of the time now to behaviour where my husband is tired, not angry at me. If you want a future forward, deal with the trauma of your past and leave it behind. There is no goo good Autogynephile. No man, who gets turned on by the thought of himself being a woman, is a good man. He will destroy your mental health and that of your family. There’s many women who haven’t been able to break off these relationships, and who might regard women like me, as inconvenient, or an enemy. There are many “academics” who completely disregard transwidows and our collective experience and knowledge. We have firm boundaries in place. This leads on to Survivor Rule Number 6: You are worth your boundaries This was said to me by my very wise and patient husband, and I hold it true. Set your boundaries and maintain them. Say no to anything or anyone who makes you uncomfortable or invalidates your experience. Walk away from those who pay homage to the Autogynephilic men out there, I hope they read this. Autogynephiles, you are destroyers of women and families. You should feel shame. There is no forgiveness until you stop cosplaying women. Atonement might be a concept we should bring back into society because what Autogynephiles have done to women, the LGB movement will take decades to recover.

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars” - Khalil Gibran I was introduced to Khalil Gibran by my mother when I was a teenager, but it wasn't until I left my ex, that his beautiful words meant something different after I had experienced 11 years of abuse. I knew nothing when I started my relationship with my ex at the age of 20. He wooed me with flowers, chocolates, we went on dates, movies and it was beautiful. I should have thought there was something wrong with some of the stories he told. He was a widower already (he was 26 and I was 20 when we met) and he lost his wife in an accident, that he didn't drive as a result and not to tell anyone or talk about it. Seems like an unreal story, but I had already grown up in a household where we kept secrets from outsiders. I discovered he had lied to me about him being a smoker. He hid in a shower and smoked when he was there or smoke in the loo. He told me he would give up and I believed him. On one date, he told me he didn't love me, just to see the look on my face - I started crying straight away, but then he said no, he was only joking and that he did love me and that's when I realised I had fallen for him. Then over the next few months, he'd start turning up late to dates, up to an hour. Back then, there was no way of contacting each other as mobiles weren't a thing. Sex was awkward and I didn't enjoy it. I say, didn't enjoy it, because I never had an orgasm. I was forced to do anal, I felt pressured to use toys on him and penetrate him with those toys. He'd buy me sex toys - but end up using them on himself. He bought lingerie for me (even though it never fit) and then he'd wear it and get me to have sex with him. I felt pressured and didn't want to do the things he wanted me to do. I didn't feel like I could say no. I was taught as a child not to say no, or my parents would get angry with me. He would ignore me, give me the silent treatment or have huge tantrums and this forced me to be compliant. He would frequently toss knives around me, near my face, he would regularly do kata with broom sticks or practice his high kicks near my face. He broke my windscreen of my car when we had a fight in the car once by kicking it from the inside. He groomed me to try and become a lesbian or bisexual. I found tranny porn on his computer, and he didn't want me in our office, so he kicked me out of the office, and I was stuck in our bedroom instead. I was left alone most nights; he went to bed after me. He took my key cards off me; he took away my front door key and wouldn't let me in unless I called him to tell him I was coming home. I would have to knock on the door to be let in. He made me work, he stayed at home and didn't work. He couldn't keep jobs because he kept having massive mood swings and not get out of bed. I know he was mentally ill, on top of his AGP tendencies. I tried so many times to leave him, but he would say he couldn't live without me. I broke off our engagement though. I started finding female clothes in our washing, but our housemate was his brother and he always brought random girls home, so he told me their washing was mixed in with ours. I bought it, hook line and sinker. I got fat, over 170kg, so he'd stop touching me. I was used, like a masturbation tool. I don't remember a lot, I'm now in counselling, but I can safely say, I didn't want to have sex much of the time when he wanted me to penetrate him or have sex with lingerie on. He did things to me with his hands that resulted in damage to my uterus which resulted in over 20 years of fertility issues. I'm still trying to understand if I was sexually assaulted, because I don't understand what happened to me. I put together a 2 year exit plan when my gran died, I realised if I didn’t leave him, I would be dead soon too. When I found work, and lost some of the weight, I left him. In doing so, he revealed his truth. He was jealous because I had a uterus. He wanted to be female, he had gender dysphoria, he had hoped we could stay together, I could take a lover if I wanted to. He planned to transition and he thought I was having an affair. I told him that he was selfish, women didn't treat other women the way he treated me and what kind of person was I if he thought I could have someone on the side? I hate the word Love. It’s used to manipulate. I have issues with boundaries, I can’t say no. I've allowed myself to be pressured into sex I haven't wanted, because I don't want to upset my partner at the time. I've said yes when I wanted to say no. After I fell in love with my husband and married him (long distance relationship was great for me because it allowed me to heal/hide my issues more) I still behave like my husband is an abuser when he's done nothing wrong. I am frightened of him when he is quiet because I learned silence = anger (he’s just tired). So, I am married 10 years and have a child, 2yrs old. After the birth, I lost my identity that I had created around the shell of a person I had become with my ex. I need constant re-assurance; I suffer from anxiety attacks. Having a bad 2019 resulted in a break down, I realised that I needed to heal so I could be a better mother. It's working. I don't know who I could have been, but I know who I am now. If you have also been affected by any of the issues in this story, please view our Resources page.

I was in a hospital bed. There were dozens of people present. Doctors, nurses, friends, family, “Can I just get my abortion now?” I asked the doctor. “What’s the delay?” Like many dreams, this one seemed to go on forever. Things were surreal. I felt sick and feverish. “We’re just running some more tests,” a nurse responded. “But why?” I demanded. “I just want my abortion.” I couldn’t understand why anything further should stand in my way. I got up to pee. “There’s nothing more lovely than the silhouette of a pregnant woman,” said a bystander, with admiration. I looked at my belly with horror. “You mean I’m showing?” I had thought I was less far along. “Then we’ve really waited too long. Let’s get the abortion underway. Please.” I was back in the bed. “You’re experiencing some complications,” the doctor said. “Let’s not be too hasty,” someone added. There was a general murmur of agreement in the room. “I’ve been in this hospital bed forever!” I yelled. “I’ve waited long enough! I’m sick. I’m exhausted. I want out. I want to leave this room and move on with my life.” I reached a desperate note. “When will this end? Why can’t I terminate this pregnancy!” I pondered the dream for half the next morning before I realized that the pregnancy was my marriage. That I had tried and tried, had done my due diligence, had become sick and exhausted with trying. That I had tried long enough. I lived happily — blissfully unaware how happily – for 14 years with a man who seemed sensitive, kind, intelligent, liberal, and feminist. We were deeply in love and the kind of couple people looked up to. My marriage was permanent; it defined my future. Two years before my marriage imploded, I would have told you we were unshakable. I couldn’t imagine a scenario that could break us up. My husband was also, to all outward appearances, happy. He enjoyed life and was uniquely easygoing and content. Those qualities made him a joy to chat with, to vacation with, and to live with. Then my husband woke up one day feeling a little “gender-fluid.” Within months he developed the conviction that he was a woman and he “came out” to everyone he knew. He left his job and he dropped out of life. While I worked outside the home, did all the housework, ran all the errands, and even moved us from the city we lived in back to the hometown we missed — from the planning to the packing to the coordination with realtors and financers to selling the old house and completing the final paperwork to buy the new one — my husband laid on the sofa and cried. He cried because someone “misgendered” him. He cried because his shoulders were too broad for his new dress. He cried because he couldn’t completely eradicate the stubble on his face. He cried because his new habit of flipping his hair back with a limp wrist had gotten him mistaken for a gay man. My formerly easygoing partner became incredibly uptight. What if someone thought he looked manly? What if he had to get the mail in jeans and a t-shirt? Could he enjoy camping anymore, if it meant that make-up and dresses were impractical? Were strangers laughing at him? Were his friends and family talking about him? He got counseling and joined support groups, where he “learned” that he was “literally” a woman, and not just someone who identified as one. He announced to all comers that he’d found his “true self” and had become “happy” for the first time in his life. His alleged happiness didn’t stop him from spiraling into an even deeper despair. He became suicidal. He was prescribed antidepressants. He adopted bizarre beliefs and became hysterical if anyone questioned them. All interests were abandoned for endless monologues about transgender rights and his “gender identity.” One by one, his friends and family began to tell him that they didn’t recognize him anymore. This made him angry. He became unavailable to the marriage. He lost his capacity for empathy. He couldn’t explain, couldn’t compromise, wouldn’t even slow down. I had been the primary focus of his life, but now I was secondary, or worse. I lost him. We all lost him. I became a “trans widow” long before I admitted defeat. I tried to get him back, an embarrassing number of times, before I reluctantly initiated the divorce. He wasn’t coming back. I loved him, but staying with him meant completely losing myself. “Men should think twice before making widowhood women’s only path to power,” said Gloria Steinem. She surely speaks of an oppression, and perhaps a solution, more sinister than mine. But perhaps I had to lose him to really find myself. Trans Widows Voices have republished this article, with permission, which can also be found on the author’s substack. For Shannon’s full story, see her recent book: “18 Months, A Memoir of a Marriage Lost to Gender Identity”

I look back and think, why didn’t I just leave? I was trapped... I had literally nobody left in my life to help me. I always knew, deep down, that I was a lesbian. I was sexually abused over a period of years during my childhood, and people sometimes ask me did that make me a lesbian. No, it might have put me off men, but it couldn’t make me feel the way I always have about women. What the abuse did was teach me that I wasn’t allowed to say no to men. By the time I was eighteen, I had a policy that if I didn’t say no to a man, he couldn’t rape me. I was also completely desperate for any kind of attention, affection, anything, I had grown up in a neglectful, abusive home, where there wasn’t much love to be had. Even negative attention felt good to me. Sex with men for me became like cutting, or starving yourself is to some people. I did it because it both hurt me, and really, I also just wanted to be held, to be paid attention to. I felt that I deserved to be hurt, but I wanted to feel nothing, and also to be held. Sexual abuse messes you up. I met my ex, George, when I was eighteen. I had just left my parents’ house to go to university. They rented out my room and made it clear that I was no longer able to go back to their house. I had no coping skills whatsoever. I sat in my room in halls for a term having an elaborate breakdown. I didn’t get any help for it, it wouldn’t have occurred to me. When I met George, I was very lonely. I would have done anything, really, for a hug and somebody to talk to. I felt like sex was all I had to offer anybody. And then there was my “don’t say no” policy. And there was the self-harm element – the same sort of dissociative relief that some people get from cutting. I was just 18, he was a couple of years older, and he could see the absolute mess my room and my life were in. If I met an 18 year old in that state, I would be giving her advice about how to seek help, not buying her presents and moving in with her. He preyed on me when I was vulnerable. I should have seen the red flags from space, but I was falling to pieces. A couple of months later, we both dropped out of our uni courses, and moved in together. We both needed a way out. He found a job, I didn’t. I was too mentally unwell to work. My days consisted of getting drunk in the morning, falling asleep 'til he came home, then having increasingly weird sex with him. He was very tall, well over six foot, and he was nominally bisexual. Or at least, he was so lacking in boundaries that he would try anything – I don’t believe he would ever have a relationship with a man, but he wanted to try everything. Every single friend of mine who came to the house, male or female, he tried to orchestrate a threesome, or a foursome, or whatever. He sometimes succeeded, sometimes didn’t, but either way it always soured things with my friends. I became increasingly isolated and alone, and started to spiral again. I look back and think, why didn’t I just leave? I was trapped. I couldn’t go back to my parents, they had rented out my room. I couldn’t go back to university. I couldn’t go to a “shelter” or whatever, because there wasn’t any violence. I had literally nobody left in my life to help me. Then I started to notice weird things happening. My favourite shoes, that were fine when I put them in the wardrobe, were broken. My dress, that had been tight, felt looser under the arms and around the shoulders. Somebody had left the top off my lipstick. My zip was broken. He was always closing his computer when I came around the door. My underwear was going missing. I came home one day to find that one half of the front of the dress that I wanted to wear that night was soaking wet. I confronted him about it. He confessed, and said that he had been wearing my dress, and had condoms filled with water in my bra, to make it feel like he had breasts. I broke down at that point and told him that I couldn’t carry on with him, that my life was out of control, that I am a lesbian, that I was so sorry for getting him involved in all this, that I would just have to find somewhere to stay and see if I could work something out. I had tears streaming down my face, and snot in my hair from crying that hard. He said that he was a lesbian too. It pulled me up short. I was only eighteen at the time. I didn’t say no to men, that wasn’t in my vocabulary. I can still hear the way a sob caught in my throat and I just stopped crying, like turning off a tap. Abruptly. He took that as consent, rather than horror, and somehow the evening ended up with him excitedly going to get dressed up, as a “lesbian.” He came downstairs in fishnets, a short, tight red dress, my heels (several sizes too small for him), red lipstick, water filled condoms in my bra, and his penis tucked up between his legs. “See, it looks like I have a vagina,” he said. “And feel my boobs, they feel like real boobs, they even have realistic nipples!”. He was feigning this whole coquettish, girlish thing, that looked like a parody of me. It felt like he was trying to be me, like he was mocking me, taking what was mine. He even affected my mannerisms, my laugh, the way I walk. I felt in shock, really. I knew that he didn’t look like any lesbian I had ever seen. He was hairy, and wiry, and over six feet tall. He hadn’t even shaved, so had a day’s beard growth. He hadn’t showered, so he smelt like a man. It was like he was purposefully showing me that he was “really” male, and enjoying my discomfort with the whole thing. Under the coquette act, there was very male entitlement and rage. I knew, I knew that he wasn’t a lesbian and that I couldn’t carry on with this, but I also knew that I couldn’t tell him that, and that I had nowhere else to go. I was frightened of what he would do if I said no. I had only said yes up to that point, and he had already managed to isolate me from all my friends and make me dependent on him for even somewhere to stay. I just went along with it. I swallowed all my feelings and went along with it. I knew what sex with women was like, the aching tenderness, the deep passion, the desperate longing to be closer, closer, the way the soul comes in at the eyes and leaves in little gasps, the way the whole of my body turned to rushing water then rested at peace. I knew that I couldn’t have that with him, because I didn’t feel that way about men, and there was no imagining that this person in front of me was anything other than a man. But I didn’t know what else to do. The sex started getting more and more bizarre. He wanted me to tie him up. He wanted me to tie him up and fuck him with a strap on. He wanted me to call him names whilst he licked my boots. He wanted me to whip him. He wanted me to tell him he was a naughty little girl. Then, when we had done the weird stuff, he would switch like magic back to “being a man” and would want straight up rough/ kinky sex, and he expected me to “submit” to that (his words). It was all controlled and orchestrated by him, he never asked me what I wanted. I had to keep all this a secret from everybody, because he didn’t want to be a woman full time, only when he was with me. Some nights were bizarre; watching TV with this man, wearing my clothes, pretending he was a lesbian, and knowing what was coming later. I didn’t know how to say no. This went on for months. Every night. I switched myself off. I felt completely trapped, I felt like I didn’t have any other option but to do what he wanted. I was completely dependent on him for everything. And then I found out I was pregnant. None of the demands for sex changed, if anything, they got more extreme. I wanted to keep the baby. To cut a long story short, George manipulated me into getting an abortion that I did not want. I tried to jump off the trolley on the way to the operating theatre, but they wouldn’t let me. George wasn’t there when I woke up. He promised he would be. I lay there, in shock and alone. Eventually, they brought a commode, and helped me onto it. There was a grey paper dish in the bottom of it, and when I stood up, it was full of blood. My baby’s blood. I can still see that bowl, the end of all my hope. I collapsed to the floor and howled with grief. It’s difficult to explain, but that was my baby. That was my little girl. I loved her. I had imagined holding her, I had imagined putting her to my breast. I imagined my life with her, and now she was dead, she was a bowl full of blood, and it was my fault, I didn’t protect her, and I was supposed to protect her. I loved her, and I had killed her, and right then I wanted to die too. Eventually, I got myself together and got a taxi back to the house. George had put all my things in bin bags and put them outside the front door. He had changed the locks. He wasn’t home. I was bleeding, I think possibly haemorrhaging. I howled on the ground outside the house again, and then got in my car and drove to a deserted layby. I was technically homeless for the next five years. I look back now and it seems almost incredible to me that I got from there to here. I did my entire undergraduate degree whilst vulnerably housed – I was living in the squat in the holidays. I was still floored by grief and guilt, but I was starting to heal. Then I met my wife, Ash, shortly after that. There’s something so genuine, grounded, boundaried, reassuring, solid about her. I had never had any ground to stand on, any place to stay, anywhere safe in my whole life. Not even as a child. One translation of the Hebrew word for Salvation is to “come home,” and so when I say that she is my salvation, I say it with my whole heart. She is the only home I have ever known. We have had our struggles. It took us a long time to work things out between us, to work out how we worked. We both brought our own trauma to the relationship. But, unusually for two broken people, we rescued each other. Nearly twenty years later, she is still my connection to the earth, my “rocks beneath,” my harbour, my safe and sound. I’m still her light, her inspiration, her passion, her joy. With George, everything was always about him – what he wanted. It felt like I just existed as a kind of prop in his increasingly misogynist fantasies, more like a masturbation aid than an actual human being. With Ash, I feel as if she sees me, at the very centre of who I am, and loves me, there, with her whole self. I feel like that connection is everything, it is healing, and beautiful and it is everything to me. It has healed my broken heart, and “she who heals her heart, heals the hearts of her children’s children”. Children. My little girl. I dreamed about her for eighteen years after the abortion. I have found peace with the choices I made. I no longer feel that I tried to murder my child; I was in a desperate situation, and I did what I could to save her. I failed. That’s not the same thing as murder. One last thing. I believed that I was evil, and that I would be punished for the abortion by a miscarriage, or a still birth, or something like that. I didn’t believe I would ever be able to hold my living child, as punishment for what I had done to my daughter. When they held up my son, a little squalling scrap, and wrapped him up, and put him in my arms, it was indescribable. I have never experienced such a shift in my emotional landscape, so quickly, as I did when I held my child in my arms. Where there were deserts, now there were seas. All that guilt, pain, grief, desperate sadness all got washed away, by this tiny child, who came into the world with his arms open. His little brother came along a few years later, and between them, they are the absolute joy of my life. They are smart, gentle, loving children, who love each other, are almost ridiculously tall and handsome, and bring joy to the lives of everybody around them. They’ve had their struggles, and so have I, but my broken heart is healed, and I’m happy, and whole, and well beloved. I have friends and family around me, I have work that matters. I have a sense of purpose and I am at peace.