FSP #3: A Mother’s Story of Strength During Emotional Abuse

Writer: Anonymous Freedom Stories - Captured through a personal interview by Beth ♡

This is a mothers story of her strength during emotional abuse.

Before everything, I was just a mam from the North East. A loving one. That part has never changed. I’ve always been maternal to the core. Passionate about my children, nature, animals—anything that breathes life back into a world that often felt like it was trying to take mine away. People used to say I was funny. Loyal. Sharp-witted. But somewhere along the way, I lost that version of me. Years of chaos and survival took over, and I didn’t recognise myself anymore. I’m 43 now. Still a worrier, but even more of a warrior. I’ve walked through things that most people will never see, and somehow, I’m still here.

My childhood started out lovely. One of four siblings, raised by a hardworking dad and nurturing mam. Our house wasn’t fancy, but it was full of love. Mam cooked hearty meals, Dad took us to the beach or out on his boat. Life felt good—until it didn’t. My dad had an accident working offshore and came home physically and mentally altered. A brain injury changed everything. Our warm, safe home turned tense and unpredictable. My mam had to become a full-time carer for him, and we kids slipped to the background. I wasn’t just grieving the loss of his health—I was grieving the dad I once knew.

At 14, I moved in with my grandparents. It was stable and loving, but when I hit 16, I wanted more freedom. My granddad was protective—too protective, I thought at the time—so I moved in with an aunt who gave me more space. That didn’t last long. I ended up sofa-surfing. Eventually, at 17, with help from a support worker, I got my first flat. I was studying, juggling three jobs, trying to build a life from scratch. That flat was more than a roof over my head. It was proof that I could survive.

At 16, I started dating a childhood friend. We were on and off for a while before going separate ways. I later went abroad — worked in Greece, France, Turkey, Austria, and even lived in Wales. At 20, I met someone who I fell for deeply. I moved to Wales to be with him, thinking this was it. We got engaged. It felt like the kind of love I'd dreamed about. But within a year, he ended it. Said he’d met someone else. I was crushed. That relationship made me realise how quickly something seemingly solid can vanish. But it also gave me the push to focus on myself. I returned home determined to build a foundation of stability—a safe home, a career, qualifications. I reconnected with my childhood boyfriend from when I was 16. We got back together in my mid twenties, and that time, we had children. I wanted security. A peaceful family life. But he wasn’t in the same place. It was turbulent, and eventually, we went our separate ways again.

I found myself repeating patterns—dating people who brought more pain than peace. One boyfriend cleared out my bank account and stole everything: cards, laptop, even photographs of my children. Another threatened my life, waving a knife and telling me I wouldn’t leave the house alive. One bashed my head against a wall and gave me whiplash. Another threatened to drive us into a wall. Every time, I somehow got out. Except one.

The most damaging relationship of all lasted fourteen years, on and off. At first, it didn’t seem so bad. But over time, the red flags got louder. I found out we weren’t exclusive. He promised we would be. Then came the wardrobe—he broke it in a rage. Years in, I realised he was stealing money from me. When confronted, he always had a way of twisting things. There were beautiful moments too. He could be funny, charming, caring. But the highs came with brutal lows. Alcohol, gambling, smashed plates, broken windows. He'd disappear into drunken spells then come back full of love and promises. The duality of who he was—it kept me stuck.

At first, I thought I was doing a good job of keeping it all from my children. Most of the time, he’d only come round when they were away with their dad. But as they got older, they started to see it. Started to hear it. And even if they didn’t witness it directly, they saw what it did to me. The stress, the tears, the exhaustion. Still, I stayed. The longer we were together, the more isolated I became. I saw friends less. Family less. I relied on him for almost everything—everything except money, because he relied on me for that. And when I tried to leave, he’d make me feel responsible for his life. He had a daughter. He’d threaten to hurt himself if I walked away. And when you’re already battling depression and physical illness, it gets harder to fight against guilt.

Christmas Day, two years ago, he pulled me off the sofa, dragged me across the floor, and smashed my phone. Other times, I’d sit in the neighbours’ house while he destroyed mine. He’d scream. Smash mirrors. Leave blood and glass everywhere. One time, he admitted sober, “I could kill her when I’ve been drinking.” He drinks and drives. He still does. He says he wants to change, but he’s not doing anything about it. And I can’t fix him.

And yet, I still miss him. Because it’s not just the man, it was the habit. The comfort. The familiarity. For fourteen years, he was the only consistent presence in my life. But that consistency came with a cost. My peace. My self-worth. My independence. I’m working on building that back now.

For the first time, I’m asking for help. I’ve been referred to Harbour. I have a peer support worker. I’ve told them I need help sticking to my boundaries, because on my own, I haven’t been able to. I’m also rebuilding my relationship with God. I pray daily. I sing in tongues—a gift I didn’t know I had until I hit rock bottom. My dog had gone missing. She was new, unfamiliar with the area, and had been rescued from abuse. I was panicking, spiralling. I hadn’t even meant to pray, but I found myself praying in tongues. Within minutes, she came back. I don’t believe that was a coincidence. That was a message.

Faith has always been in the background of my life. I went to church as a kid, but I stopped after my dad’s accident. Still, I never stopped believing. In my darkest moments—when I was bedbound from physical pain worse than childbirth—all I could do was pray. They were planning surgery on my back. My MRI showed that discs were pressing on my nerves. But after prayer, when I went back, the nerves were no longer compressed. And I hadn’t had surgery yet. I know what I believe.

Healing, for me, looks like gardening. Watching flowers bloom. Seeing something go from broken to beautiful. It looks like driving again. Sitting in the sun. Talking to my kids and watching them become strong, kind people despite everything. It looks like accepting that I still have bad days. That some mornings, I don’t open the curtains. That I still live with fibromyalgia, anxiety, depression. But I don’t live under them.

I’m on fewer medications now. I used to avoid them altogether—wanted herbal remedies, wanted to be strong without help. But I’ve learned strength means accepting support. I’m more emotionally intelligent now. I see patterns. I’m not trying to save the world anymore. I help who I can without draining myself. I protect my energy. I value rest. I understand that being empathetic is a gift, but if it’s not protected, it turns toxic.

I’m still learning to forgive myself for staying. But I also know I’ve been the best mam I could be under impossible circumstances. And maybe my kids, seeing what I went through, will learn what not to tolerate. That love shouldn’t come with fear, or silence.

If you’re reading this and you're stuck in a cycle like mine, I want you to know this: it’s not simple. It’s not easy. But you are not alone. And you are not weak. You are surviving. You are doing your best. Try to make a plan. Try to build a network—even if it’s just one or two people. Try counselling. If one doesn’t work, try another. Your first failed attempt doesn’t mean you failed. It means you’re still learning. Still trying. And that matters.

You can forgive someone without letting them stay in your life. You can forgive yourself too. Don’t wait until you’re on the floor to reach out. And don’t wait until you’re ready. Start before you’re ready. It’s okay to be scared. Just try. One day, one step, one no at a time.

I don’t know everything. But I know this: I’m still here. I’m still trying. And that is more than enough.

-Anonymous ♡

Anonymous Profile:

Freedom Story #3

Age: 43

Gender: Woman

Nationality: British

Location during interview: UK

Freedom Quote: "Failure isn't the end, its the proof you can keep going"

Mother of 3