Page 75 of Mad About You

Even in tiny-size lettering, Harriet could make out Scott’s name at the top of the thumbnail and her stomach lurched. She had known, in some part of her brain, he must be behind this. She hadn’t wanted to outright think it until she absolutely had to.

She saved the picture to her photos, deleted the comment and disabled commenting on her page. She opened the screenshot in full on her phone screen.

It was from Scott’s personal Facebook, set public. There was a photograph of him in a polo shirt under a tree in a park, hugging his knees and smiling winningly, like he was the former lead singer on the cover of his much-anticipated first solo album.

Underneath, lots of text.

My name is Scott Dyer and I’m a victim of an emotional abuser.

Even now as I type those words, I want to run the cursor back and delete them, make them untrue. I thought I had the power to make it untrue by denying it. I thought it made me weak to admit I was scared of a woman, let alone one who I’d wanted to share my life and my bed with. Someone who I’d been in love with. How pathetic is that, to think her behaviour attacked my masculinity? Fear is fear.

The truth is, if I deny my experiences, I can never heal, and I can never help anybody else. We don’t talk about thisenough, because society tells men to be strong. We shouldn’t show vulnerability and we shouldn’t complain if we’re going through hell at the hands of our wife or girlfriend. We can all joke among the lads in the pub about ‘bunny boilers’, but we don’t know how to talk about it seriously. How to reach out and admit when we’re being terrorised by someone who is meant to be our lover, not our enemy.

I will call my ex H, because her identity isn’t the point. She knows what she did, even if she can’t accept its impact.

What I suffered was a form of domestic violence, but it was emotional, psychological warfare – apart from the objects hurled at me when she was drunk, there was no physical threat.

The trouble is, we have a stereotypical image of an abuser: usually a well-built man, over a certain age, load of tattoos. We don’t think it’ll be a sarcastic girl with strawberry-blonde hair in a plait, and the face of an angel. Because H couldn’t dominate me physically, people don’t understand how she undertook the demolition of my self-worth and my self-belief.

We met at a party and hit it off. H made it clear she liked me from day one, and I dug that. I thought to myself, she didn’t play games, proper salt-of-the-earth Huddersfield lass. Things moved fast – I now see too fast – at her urging. She’d had a very damaging childhood – I won’t be more specific to protect privacy – which she insisted hadn’t affected her. With hindsight, I can see her refusal to discuss it, or consider that it might have harmed her, was a huge warning sign. She could never be in the wrong, from the start. Any problemswe had must have come from me, even though I was from a stable, loving background and wasn’t used to drama.

We moved in together and soon, out of nowhere, the attacks on my peace of mind began. If we went out with her friends she would spend the evening finding ways to run me down, mocking me and needling at me in front of them. When I asked why, when we were alone, she’d play dumb.

She would openly come on to other men in front of me, a power play to see if I would step in or sit and take it. Sometimes I’d ask my mates if they’d noticed, and they’d be too embarrassed to admit what they’d seen too. They’d say: ‘I’m sure she loves you.’ This became like a mantra from H: I love you, of course I wasn’t doing what you say I was doing. To be with her, I had to deny the evidence of my own eyes and ears.

She was secretive about what was on her devices, another huge tell that I was being played. One time I found provocative, half-dressed photos, clearly meant for someone else, on her phone. She said she didn’t know what I meant, insisted they were taken only for her.

I had to be very careful about humour, or anything she might find insulting – she was on a hair trigger, and it could provoke days, or even weeks, of sulking if I said the wrong thing. Her insecurity was a deep hole I could never fill, but it was made clear that I had to try anyway. I reassured her that her weight didn’t bother me, but she’d pick at her food to punish me for saying I thought someone who happened to be thinner than her was attractive.

She needed constant reassurance, promises from me. Shewould demand sex, and if I didn’t have sex with her, then I didn’t love her, she said. If I resisted, she would literally beg me. I knew the unspoken threat was that she’d sleep around if I didn’t comply. Consent when someone’s put you in a dilemma like that – it isn’t really consent.

My friends grew concerned. H was always on her best behaviour and acted sweet as sugar in their company, but they weren’t fooled. When I came out without her, I was tired, jumpy, worn down. They dragged it out of me, but even then I lied, I said I was worried for her safety when she had a drink in her. I was more intimidated and worried about mine.

Eventually, some survival instinct kicked in and after four years, I finally got free. She’d come home late and drunk and thrown things around, and we had an argument about it the next day. She told me she was leaving me, something she did to pull me into line.

For once, I agreed. I don’t think she expected me to call her bluff and go. She stood watching me in shock as I hastily loaded up my things and ran for my life. As I left, I begged her to get professional help before she put anyone else through similar. I already felt for the next guy who fell for her, as innocently and trustingly as I had.

had been the problem, my failure to care for her the way she wanted, while she trampled on every feeling I had.

After we split, she stalked me. I blocked her on every platform because I knew she’d check up on me constantly if I didn’t; my friends mentioned she was always hanging round the places we’d gone together.

But I moved on, and I got happy with a great girl.

The reason I’m writing all this now is because a couple of weeks ago, H and I ran into each other at a wedding. It was a beautiful, emotional day and I avoided her as much as I could, not wanting any hint of our past to intrude on the happy couple’s special celebration. But I knew she’d rage at seeing me settled with someone else. I dreaded what attack she might launch on me in my new life.

As a result of that encounter, she found out who my fiancée is, and where she works, and targeted her.

She wrote a long, poisonous letter, detailing what a horrible boyfriend I’d been to her. It was full of one-sided inventions about how I’d constantly turned on her for no reason, ranting on about how my fiancée should leave me. Naturally, Marianne was badly upset. It’s literally weeks before our wedding, and she’s dealing with this nasty rubbish instead of being excited about the best day of her life.

I had no choice but to put my side, something I’d wanted to spare Marianne. Luckily for me, when I sat down and poured it all out, put everything on the line, my incredible partner believed in me.

I don’t know if H will see this, and if she’ll do more to try to drag me and the people I love down as a response. I don’t care, because I won’t be scared anymore. I want to speak up for all the people who’ve had their heads fucked with, and haven’t known where or who to turn to, or how to talk about it. You’re not weak, you’re strong for surviving.

My name is Scott Dyer, and I am a victim of abuse.

Harriet ran to the toilet and threw the bagel up.

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