I grew up in a seemingly normal family to the outside world. All families seem normal don't they. But you cannot judge a book by it's cover because from experience, there is so much more than goes on behind what image we chose to show the world. I grew up in domestic violence. My Mum and Dad used to argue and beat the shit out of each other. Not little fights or bickers, but full blown hitting, baseball bats, knives, various other objects. My very first memory of it must have been when I was about 4 or maybe 5. My brother was in his baby seat in the car. We lived in Glayside road opposite the swimming baths in Wythenshawe Manchester. They'd been arguing, I was sat at the top of the stairs listening and my Mum had run out of the house. I remember my Dad bundling me and my brother into the car and driving after my Mum. She had run down Brownley road I think and into the flats where my aunt Bernie used to live. My Dad caught up with her in the bottom stairwell of those flats. He had grabbed a bat off the passenger seat, locked my brother and I in the car and went after mum. I just remember sitting in the car hearing this thud thud thud (which I presume was the bat) and my Mum screaming and screaming and screaming. I'm not 100% if it was her or the wall behind her he was hitting but I remember screaming and crying, pulling at the door handles, trying to get out the car to my Mum and I couldn't. I remember my baby brother crying in distress because I was crying.

They both worked full time, I flitted between my Nana and Grandads house (my mums parents)  and my Grandma and Grandads house (my dads parents) whilst they worked. I don't remember where my brother went if I'm honest. I even had my own room at my Grandmas house, as she only ever had 2 sons and had desperately wanted a daughter. So when I came along she would tell me I was the daughter she never had and ultimately, whenever I went there she would spoil me rotten bless her. Most of the traits that I carry and how I parent I believe came from wanting to be a mum like my Grandma. She taught me to bake, to knit, I would cook with her, she made my childhood magical. There was a large oak at the bottom of the garden that my bedroom window overlooked and at night we would watch a barn owl coming and going. She would tell me it was the Goblin King watching over me (the labyrinth was my favourite childhood film-I was obsessed and had a massive crush on David Bowie haha) After my shower every evening, we would sit and watch Emmerdale religiously and I would knit whilst scoffing dried prunes and apricots or eating an apricot fruit corner. I remember watching the big plane crash on Emmerdale and shitting myself often about planes crashing, as we lived a stones throw away from Manchester airport. I even used to have reoccurring dreams about it. 

My Grandma and Grandads house was my safe place from all the shite going on at home, that's what I thought at such a young age anyway. My Mum and Dads volatile relationship continued until I was 14 I think. My latter memories of it all are these. Our kitchen was a traditional U shape, Mum and I were stood in opposite corners, she waiting for the microwave, I waiting for the toaster. Whilst waiting I was looking at her, we were both wearing dress like nighties and I was absentmindedly staring at the blotchy purple/black bruises on her thighs. I looked up to her face and strangely enough she was staring at my thighs too, as I had matching bruises to hers on my legs. That memory never leaves me. 

He never hit my brother the way he hit me and my Mum, it was always the two of us getting it in the neck. It got to a point where I'd see him marching towards me and I'd instantly start saying "sorry, sorry, sorry". I never quite knew what I'd done but I must have done something as he looked cross, so I would just say it in the hope I wouldn't get hit. If anything it pissed him off more... "sorry is your favourite word isn't it?", he'd sneer at me. I wasn't allowed friends round whilst him and Mum were at work but it got lonely as they worked long hours. So one day I let my best friend at the time, Ste come over. We were literally just sat in the living room watching a film, nothing more, when my dad walked in. He saw Ste first, then turned around to me and hit me over the head multiple times with his briefcase.

The very last time he was violent towards us, the argument had spilled into the back garden and I could hear them. I just remember being so blindingly enraged that I ran down the stairs and stood between them in the garden, screaming at them both to stop. I was 13/14 and my Dad kind of sneered, like he was enjoying the fact I was there too, someone else to hurt. He must have made a move to come towards me because I just remember my mum bear hugging me from behind so I couldn't fly at him. I HATED him so much right there and then, I could see the hate in his eyes, the goading in them, he wanted me to fly at him. I could hear him saying "go on, let her go, let her go" whilst he was holding a wooden broomstick like a bat, waiting to hit me. It was at that point a police man popped his head over our back garden fence. I'm not sure if it was neighbours or my Mum who phoned, but my Dad was arrested and charged. That was the very last time he laid a hand on us.


A few months after this, my Grandads lung cancer came back in his remaining lung (after previously battling cancer 10 years earlier). I was around 14 and when he was dying, my parents were back and forth to visit him. When someone is dying, you kind of sit with your grief and try to accept what you cannot change. You think of all the wonderful memories you shared together. I was thinking of all the times I'd sat in the garden with him, planting seeds, collecting petals to make perfume, picking ladybirds out of the ivy that covered the whole front of the house. The rainy days when we'd sit in his work shed and put things in the vice, then cut it with my own mini hack saw, or when I'd sit on his knee near Christmas time and he'd crack walnuts out of the nut bowl for me to scoff, or when he was poorly and I helped to make him better.... and that's when the abuse that I didn't realise I was going through, started to unravel for me.


I was around 4-6 years old and my Grandad was looking after me, he'd told me he wasn't feeling very well and would I like to help look after him. I knew he'd been ill as he had a recent large scar across one of his shoulder blades towards his armpit where he had a lung removed. I adored my Grandad so of course I wanted to look after him. He took me to the bathroom and explained I would have to help him put special cream on to make him feel better. So he stood over the sink, unzipped his pants and got his penis out, he put a gel like substance into his hand and started to rub it up and down his penis showing me how to do it. Then he asked me to hold out my hand so he could put the gel in my hand and I rubbed the special medicine onto him to help him feel better. I remember having to tip toe to do it because I couldn't quite reach the sink. After a short while, all white stuff filled the sink and he told me I was a really good girl, that was all the bad coming out of his body and that I had made him feel much better. He took me to the shop afterwards to buy me a comic and some sweets and I was so happy I had helped make my Grandad feel better.

That was the first time and it was not the last. Anything that was not penetrative happened. I was taught to masturbate and how to pose for pictures, he'd put his tongue in my mouth and nibble my ears. My Dad actually caught me masturbating when I was 8. He walked into my room to check if I was asleep and I hadn't heard him, I quickly pulled my hands out of my pants and pretended to be asleep. "What were you doing?" he asked. He couldn't see anything as I was under the covers but I vividly remember telling him that I was tickling myself. I didn't know what it was at that age obviously, I just knew it felt good.

So at that point in my life, when he suddenly died, everybody in my family was devastated because he was this wonderful man whom everybody loved. But I was left confused and numb, I couldn't even cry. I couldn't tell anybody whilst they were grieving that this wonderful man was not who they thought he was, they wouldn't believe me. I started on a massive downward spiral self harming. I’d smash picture frames on the walls in my bedroom so that I could use the glass to cut all the skin on my arms and get the frustration, anger and confusion out. I attempted suicide on one occasion and had to spend 4 days in hospital. My parents had gone out with my younger brother one day and I raided the cupboards for any pills I could find. Painkillers, sleeping tablets, all of it and I took them one by one listening to Linkin Park ‘In the end’, on repeat. Dramatic I know but I loved Linkin Park and related to all of the emotions hidden in the lyrics. So yeh, I took what I could and went to bed to sleep, hopefully to never wake up. Thankfully now, I did wake up choking on my own vomit and ran to the toilet being sick. Mum came in wanting to know what was up, even asking if I was pregnant, I remember being so focking angry I just looked at her and said "No, I took an overdose". And that was that, they took me to hospital. From there on in I think I got labelled as the problem child or the weird one with issues, fock knows but to everyone else I guess I was a crank.

Not long after that I cut my wrists and was taken to hospital again. When we got home and my wrists were bandaged, I remember my Mum sitting down and saying to me "right, come on. What is going on?". I just gave up, everything I had in me suddenly left and I told her that my Grandad used to do stuff to me. Though I'll never understand as every parent reacts differently, she told me not to tell anyone. She said I couldn't tell my Dad as it would destroy him, he idolised his dad. This focked me. I'm not going to lie, it absolutely focked me. I just had to hold all these emotions, anger, confusion, frustration, memories in. I had no one to talk to, turn to. I was seeing a psychiatrist through the hospital based in Rhyl and I couldn't even tell him as my dad would find out. Couldn't get answers as my abuser was dead. I went through most my early adult life self harming and suicidal and I developed extremely bad body dysmorphic disorder which I would later be diagnosed with.


I'd met a young boy on holiday when I was 14 who was 2 years older than me, we were smitten. Young and daft, I got pregnant when I was 17. We tried to make it work but it wasn't happening for us. I fell pregnant again when our daughter was only 6 months old and he openly admitted I wasn't the type of person he wanted to be with. So with that in mind and being a single mum, I had an abortion. Hardest choice I've ever had to make. I begged him to try, asked him to not make me do this, but it wasn't to be. I don't regret my choice as it wasn't made lightly. I wanted to give my daughter the best chance I could and I was back to living in the box room at my Mum and Dads with a 6 month old. It would of been selfish of me to bring a baby into that mix too. I was depressed, lonely and down, I turned to teletext chat pages for company and that's where I met Mike. I struggled to trust and was stuck in that abuse cycle mindset, so I got into relationship with this man whom I ended up having a further 4 children with. It was a domestic abuse relationship, he said jump I'd ask how high. I didn't see it at first, I was just this focked up teenage mess with mental health problems. I was highly unstable and vulnerable and along came this man who was interested in me. I'd only ever slept with one person prior and, to me, this new man was gods gift. He went to the gym, he was a body builder, to me he was gorgeous, why would anyone like him be interested in me?

Little things at first, like my 9 month old daughter I had with my first boyfriend, my childhood crush so to speak. I had her at 17. Well she wasn't allowed to see her real Dad, everything her real Dad did was "wrong". I wasn't allowed to speak to him and if I did my new boyfriend threatened to leave. My ex had dropped my daughter back off at my Mums and Dads with me one day and he broke down saying he'd just found out his Nana had cancer, he was devastated. He stayed and had coffee etc and because I hadn't text Mike in a while, I explained why and he hit the roof "I don't focking care if she's died, I don't want him anywhere near!"

It was subtle, little things. Jealousy over working with males. I quit jobs to make him happy. Didn't like me talking to guys in the gym, so eventually I stopped going. Didn't like me being bisexual and would constantly tell me I wasn't Bi if I hadn't had sexual intercourse with a woman. The last couple of years were horrific now looking back on them. If we had girls nights in, 9/10 times I'd go in my Pjs so he knew I wasn't going out and cheating on him. I'd get badgered all night and accused of all sorts. I'd have to send pictures of where I was to prove where I was. So it became easier to not go out anymore. I was slowly being isolated, stripped of who I was. In hindsight I went into the relationship a focked up mess, with no idea who I was anyway, so I could be moulded easily into someone else's ideal I guess.

He was on sex sites whilst I was pregnant with my twins. I was extremely poorly in that pregnancy as my thyroid failed so I was in hospital a lot and he was on these sites. I'll never know the full truth or extent of what went on behind my back but I found out when I was 16 weeks pregnant, forgave him. He said he'd never do it again etc then when my twins had just turned one, I found out he was on them again and up to all sorts. He'd tell me he was taking the dogs out for a walk and leave them locked in the boot of the car while he went and shagged someone on the beach. He shagged a woman older than my mother whom he met at the gym and beelined for, telling her we were temporarily separated and he was staying with his mum. It was a sex site where you left "feedback" so once I found his profile and saw all his feedback, I created a fake profile for myself to arrange to meet up and confront him.

By this point I had been brainwashed and isolated from my Mum, my brother and my few friends. I was literally in it alone. He was all I had so again, I gave him a chance. I even offered threesomes with other women to help save our relationship but he said he didn't want to share me, that he's not interested in anyone else, he loves me etc etc. I struggled massively to trust him. I couldn't let it go, I'd forever be bringing it up, this is when the relationship turned physically violent. My arms were forever black and blue with bruises of where he'd grabbed me. If I ever pointed them out I'd just get told, "I didn't hit you did I? I grabbed you, you just bruise easily". He'd pin me up against walls or grab me and throw me if I stood in his way. I was sat on the stairs once when he was hurling abuse at me, calling me a psycho, a headcase, nobody would want me, even my own mother didn't want anything to do with me. I had a meltdown and started head butting the wall, he wouldn't shut up and I wanted it to stop. I couldn't physically stop him so I head butted the wall repeatedly as I wanted to knock myself out. I just wanted it to stop. He just stood there and laughed at me with his arms folded and said "Look at you, you're a focking head case."

He slapped me that hard across my face once that my jaw didn't sit right for a few years after. It used to lock and jut out to the left every time I ate chewy food but thankfully has since stopped. He grabbed and twisted my finger during an argument and fractured it. I had to go to hospital and have it X-rayed and had to send him pictures of the hospital A&E waiting room to prove I was there. The worst was when we'd had a massive argument in the bedroom and he pushed me on the bed and straddled me and choked me around my neck with both his hands. I remember my vision going all spotty and my ears popped and my hearing went. I was on the verge of passing out and genuinely thought he was going to strangle me to death. I phoned the police when he eventually got off me and he was arrested and charged. I had bruising on my neck and behind my ears from the pressure causing my ears to pop. The police took photographs of all the bruising/marks as evidence.  He got community service and we stayed together. He'd lock himself in the car with my mobile so he could go through it, my messages, my social media.

The police were called to attend our home a total of 11 times for DV. One time they came round and he threw all my sex toys out of my bedroom window into the front garden for everyone to see, to try and embarrass me and the police had to clear it all for me. Social services were called in, they came around every week to check on me, on us, on the kids. I took in what I could and I remember asking my social worker "if I left the relationship, would I still need to see you guys?" Her answer was no. We got put through couples counselling, but to him everything was my fault. I'd gone against him, I'd carried on speaking to my mum when he didn't want me to, he cheated on me because I didn't support him through it, the list went on. We smiled and nodded I guess to get ticks in all the right boxes and I became a bitter, horrible person.

Whilst going through all this, I joined the same sex site he had been on, to prove to myself I wasn't this disgusting, psychotic, unstable mum of 5 that I was made to feel like. I put pictures of myself up on this site and became someone I wasn't. I met up with various people who were interested in me and wanted to take things further, 3 couples, 1 woman and 4 men. However I only arranged 2nd meets (sex meets) with 2 of the men. I was such a spiteful bitch, the two men were men who knew Mike, who trained with him at the gym. To me it was the ultimate revenge knowing these other muscular body builders wanted me, knowing I was Mike's Mrs. It was fruitless. After having sex with them I felt empty, disgusting, used, unloved and angry with the focking world. Both of these men had Mrs' and to me that was justified. I had been one of these stupid ignorant women getting cheated on with these gorgeous mistresses and I guess I thought maybe I'd feel empowered, sexy and worthy being the mistress too. Instead, I just felt empty. It was shit meaningless sex, there was no connection. I felt used and dirty. I was ashamed.

Then the anger came. If I felt like this, how on earth could Mike do it time and time again and come home and kiss me, make love to me, tell me he loved me, play happy families!? I was horrified and disgusted, irate at the whole fucking world. I hated men with a passion. Are they all cheating lying abusive bastards?? I shagged a bloke in his marital bed whilst his wife was at work!? I was mortified. I hated myself. I was living a fucking lie believing Mike loved me whilst he was doing this shit and not even feeling bad. I switched off mentally. Detached myself mentally from the relationship and when we finished our couples counselling in the February, he had me by the throat again 3 days later. He wasn't was going to change. I was stuck in this life. The only way out was leaving or a wooden box. So one day in April, after a few weeks of planning, I waited until he went to work, got me and the kids out of there and never looked back.

Women's Aid helped me and the children massively during this time. Without them and the help of my few friends I had left (mainly my friends Finn and Jaz) and my family (I reached out to my Mum and got her back in my life), I don't think I would be where I am today. It has been 4 years since I left. I've since been diagnosed with PTSD and GAD because of everything I went through. I'm on anti depressants, I go to counselling and still have a support worker to this day for emotional support, as I struggle to get close to people/trust/make new friends. I know I'm not "perfect" and I know I potentially still have a long way to go. I don't think I'll ever be "normal" but I'm so focking glad I'm not the person I used to be, stuck in a life I wasn't living.

 
So a little post note. A few names have been changed to protect various identities. I still have paperwork from North Wales Police as evidence of the case and all the times they were called out. I still have the newspaper cutting from the Rhyl journal documenting the court case and his arrest. Social services still have everything on record. My dad still doesn't know about me being sexually abused as I have never told him. I'd like to also add that whilst my dad wasn't a very nice person in the past, I am very much a believer in that 90% of the time people learn and grow and change for the better. My dad has, he's no longer the person he was. I'm apprehensive and nervous putting it all out there once and for all but I don't want to live holding it all in anymore. I really need to let it go and let it heal. Thank you for reading guys.

Update. In January of 2021 I finally plucked up the courage to tell me dad about me being sexually abused. He has been hugely supportive and understanding. I now feel at peace with my past and feel like a massive weight/burden/secret has been lifted off of my shoulders. I am finally free of it and free to be my full authentic self on this road of healing. xxxx

This is Gemma's Truth.


Hi my  truth,

I've been a victim of domestic abuse, I was a substance user and had issues with alcohol.

I met my abuser Carl at the age of 12, everything was great, we were high school sweethearts, then the drugs came into it, amphetamine - whizz so to speak and everything went down the pan. I would go to go out and he wouldn't allow me out due to my skirt or even my top being too revealing,  it stripped me of who I was, my confidence was dramatically gone, I was a shell of my former self. So I stopped the whizz.

My family noticed to the change in me, My partner hated that but that was best for me. I became pregnant at the age of 17, my son was born when I turned 18 and to be honest it was great, he was great, till his mother got hold again with the whizz and I started to see Carl less and less, his mum used to text me saying come round make an effort, me being me thought that was the right thing to do so low and behold I was back on whizz staying up all night for 3 nights at a time, my son was cared for still, but looking back now I could of been one hell of a better mum, the domestic abuse soon crept in little digs here and there till one night he head butted me and I was out cold. I woke up to a stinking headache and a cigarette burn in my back to be told that it was my own fault for being a crap partner and not putting out sex wise, it was horrible but I put up with it for a while until social services got involved, as someone reported us, I was so glad this was my escape.

I started seeking help of a doctor to get off drugs. He put me on diazepam and Valium. I went home skipping happy thinking this is it take, I'm taking back my control. Carl hated me at this time, my son was on the CPR (child protection register) A case conference was held and I blurted it all out when Carl left to go toilet. I wanted out, I was scared. So my then social worker took me to Manchester to my sisters and that's where me and my son stayed for about a week, till I started missing Carl. I know, dumb right?  So I got a taxi all the way back and he was great at first, till couple of weeks later when I refused to take the drugs he was offering, it got very heated and he laid his hands on me, the police got called and I got took into a refuge. I stayed for few nights but again this wasn't me, I got the courage to go back to my family.


I stayed for month no contact, then I moved back to Manchester just me and my son it was great, it was us against the world, then I remember that Christmas he turned up like nothing happened. My mum and dad were spending Christmas with me and they walked out as they couldn't stand me being with him. I then escalated to drink as nobody would give me whizz  down there, so I began to drink heavy every night.  My sister and social services removed my son out my care after one night Carl tried to burn his trainers on my cooker. I don't remember as I was drunk asleep on couch all I remember is a paramedic waking me up with mouth to mouth and that was some scary crap.  Once Liam my son was removed I starting to see Carl for the first time for what he was.


I went out one day, I don't know why but I got a knife and had it in my hand, this is it I have to kill myself or Carl.  Lucky enough I was jogging back home and seen the police, the police asked "you ok love?"  I said ",no I've got a knife." I was arrested on the spot but the copper seen through me and let me out, I went home flew at Carl told him that he had to get out so he did.... I held myself up for a year.  I had to sort myself out for my sons sake and I was doing brilliantly on my own till of course one day I lost my head and hated the world. It ended up 3 police Van's outside my house and I ended up in rehab, that week was like the awakening of me, I was me  again. I was in control of me finally.... I fought so so hard to get my son back and I bloody did it. I became the mother I was always meant to be...


If Gemma's truth resonated with you in any way, please feel free to comment in the comment bar below. She will see this. When we stand up in front of the whole world unafraid to express our truth, we clear an easier path for others to do the same. I'm so proud of you Gemma, you are a Warrior.