This article references domestic abuse and suicide.
For years, I’ve been harbouring a secret I was too ashamed to tell even my closest friends. I regularly checked national death records to see if my abusive ex-boyfriend was still alive. I had done this for over a decade because I often wished he was dead. This month, when I entered his details into the search engine, instead of returning no results, his name appeared. He was gone. I expected that when I found out Connor* was dead, I’d feel relief, but instead, sadness washed over me, and I started crying. Why was I upset after what he’d done to me?
I first met Connor when I was 17. He was funny, intelligent, and charming; he was also 16 years older than me, a huge red flag for everyone but me. He showered me with attention and affection, which was flattering at first but later suffocating.
We worked together, so we spent every waking moment in each other’s company. He would subtly belittle me in front of colleagues, picking on my insecurities and reinforcing every negative thought I ever had about myself. He poisoned me against my family (who could sense early on that he was bad news), causing an estrangement that would take years to heal. When my friends invited me out, he would guilt me into staying home. Friends stopped reaching out, and I became increasingly reliant on Connor.
As this was my first serious relationship, I had no frame of reference or clue that his behaviour was troubling. I didn’t realise abuse could take place without violence.
When the first act of violence occurred, I felt I must have done something to deserve it. The violence was followed by a weeping apology and assurance it would never happen again. But it did. I lived in shame, not telling anyone about the abuse, even my parents, because I believed what was happening was my fault.
Connor drank every night and would start with a happy buzz, then reach a point where his mood shifted, and he became a different person. I could never predict that mood shift; I’d always find out too late when he flew into a rage.
In our three years together, I tried to leave and contacted shelters, but they were always full. I lived in a state of fear and hypervigilance, barely talking in case I said anything that would trigger Connor’s rage. When Connor was in a violent mood, he told me if I reported him to the police, that he’d kill me. I believed him.
One day, I wore a short-sleeved top to work despite bruises on my arms. One of Connor’s friends, Johnny*, asked what had happened. I told the truth, “Connor grabbed my arms and screamed in my face because I pissed him off.” Johnny didn’t look shocked, “I had my suspicions; he’s always had a bit of a temper.”
I was horrified. His friends knew what he was capable of, but no one did anything about it. I told Johnny I wanted to leave Connor, but I needed his friends to stage an intervention about his violent temper since they were seemingly all aware of it. Johnny agreed to gather Connor's friends to talk to him after work, giving me time to go home and pack my bags.
"Some who die by suicide may be ‘hidden victims’ of domestic abuse, left uncounted and unrecognised.”
I hastily packed and took a taxi to my parent's house without warning them. My mum opened the door to me, holding my life in bin bags with bruises covering my arms. She scooped me up and held me as I sobbed. I didn’t tell her what had happened; I just asked if I could come home. She said, “I’ve wanted you to come home for three years, darling.”
I have no idea what Connor’s friends said to him, but he never contacted me again. I called in sick for a week and then resigned because I couldn’t face the thought of seeing him at work. I needed a clean break.
It turns out leaving was the easy part – learning how to live with the trauma was much harder.
I had recurring nightmares that Connor would murder me. I became sensitive to loud noises, sudden movements and people touching me. I was constantly on edge and made a drunken attempt to end my life a year after I left Connor. After a long conversation with a hospital psychologist, who diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder, I began seeing a counsellor.
Gender-based violence is not inevitable.
Talking through my past experiences allowed me to see how Connor eroded my confidence and self-worth. It was going to take time to get those back. I was also given a safe space to talk about my fears and recognise my triggers to help me cope with the anxiety I felt. When my therapist asked my goal, I said, “To get my life back.” I never told her that my dream would be to find out Connor was dead, in the hope that my trauma would die with him.
I thought about Connor often. I was convinced he’d drink himself to death one day, which is why I started searching for him in death records. When I found out that Connor had died, I made an emergency therapy appointment because feeling sad about this vile human freaked me out. I needed to know why I wasn’t relieved.
“It’s much easier to rest once you know the monster that haunted your dreams can’t hurt you anymore.”
My therapist explained my feelings were conflicted for many reasons, and I had spent a lot of our early sessions saying, “If only he had changed, maybe we could have been happy,” but that was a complete fantasy. I could never have forced Connor to change; he had to decide to change on his own. Perhaps I was mourning a version of him that didn’t exist.
Psychotherapist Georgina Sturmer says conflicting emotions when an abuser dies are common. She explains, “We might be angry that they have died, especially if they had not been brought to justice or showed remorse for what they had done to us. Perhaps we were hopeful for an apology or some resolution. Or to have had an opportunity for them to understand what they had done to us. Their death removes this opportunity from our imagined future.”
Sturmer continues, “If we have experienced abuse, then we might feel an emotional release when we hear that they have died. This might feel like sadness; it could be sadness for ourselves. It could be that the news of their death does bring a sense of relief, and this opens the door for us to grieve for ourselves. For anything that our abuser may have taken away from us.”
You're asking the wrong question.
Now in my early 40s, I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I am still impacted by a relationship that started in my teens. But Connor stole precious years of my life and made me wary of letting people in for a very long time. After talking things through with my therapist, I am now beginning to feel a sense of closure. She asked me if I really wished death on Connor, and I was honest, “Yes, I sometimes wished he was dead, but what I really wanted was for him not to be able to hurt me ever again.”
The month before I found out Connor had died, I had terrible insomnia, but the night after I spoke to my therapist about his death, I slept soundly. It’s much easier to rest once you know the monster that haunted your dreams can’t hurt you anymore.
*Names have been changed.
When life is difficult, Samaritans are here – day or night, 365 days a year.
You can call them free on 116 123 or email them at jo@samaritans.org. Whoever you are and whatever you’re facing, they won’t judge you or tell you what to do. They’re here to listen so you don’t have to face it alone.
For more information about emotional abuse and domestic abuse, you can call The Freephone National Domestic Abuse Helpline, run by Refuge on 0808 2000 247.
Refuge’s National Domestic Abuse Helpline 0808 2000 247, available 24 hours a day 7 days a week for free, confidential specialist support. Or visit www.nationaldahelpline.org.uk to fill in a webform and request a safe time to be contacted or to access live chat (live chat available 3pm-10pm, Monday to Friday). For support with tech abuse visit refugetechsafety.org.
