In the month of may I will be taking part in completing the Yorkshire three peaks,

This is a charity that is extremely close to My heart,

I feel this is the Right time now to tell my story, 2 years on my abuser is in jail serving a term of a minimum of 5 years before he is able to apply for parole, this is not just to raise funds for my chosen charity but also to raise awareness on domestic violence and to stop the stigma on victims running, to show there is help there is support out there and it’s not the worst place it’s the best

To help and nurture women into believing that getting and seeking refuge in a women’s refuge will potentially save your life, it will give you the support and help to overcome running back to your abuser.

I want to show women that seeking refuge in a women’s shelter isn’t something to be ashamed of—it can save your life. It provides the security, the support, and the space to heal. Leaving is never easy, but I want every woman to know it is possible, and it is the first step toward freedom.

This is my story. It’s painful. It’s raw. But if sharing it can help just one person find the courage to break free, it will be worth it.

The Dream That Turned Into a Nightmare

When I first met him, he was everything I thought I needed. He was charming, warm, promising me the world. He told me I was his soulmate, that I was the most beautiful thing in his life. And for a time, I believed him. I thought I had found love—real, deep love. But love, as I came to know it, wasn’t what he gave me.

It started off small. A push. A thump in the leg. A little shove, a push to my chest, a grab of my wrist that hurt but didn’t leave marks. At first, I told myself it wasn’t that bad, that maybe I was overreacting. I would make excuses for him—he had a bad day or he was stressed—because he was always so sorry afterward. He’d beg for forgiveness, hold me in his arms, and promise it would never happen again. But it did. Soon, it escalated—so quickly, so violently. Every time he hurt me, it felt like a part of me shattered. I wasn’t even me anymore. I was just a possession. A thing. My sparkle, my spirit—it was disappearing. Day by day, I became more and more numb, hollow, until I couldn’t even recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror.

And when it did, it escalated. Fast. Each time, the intensity increased. His eyes would darken, his voice would get lower, colder. He would grab me by the throat and push me into walls. He would hit me, not on my face at first—never on my face—but that didn’t make it any less painful. My body would be covered in bruises, welts, red marks that no one else could see, and yet I felt them. Every slap, every punch, every shove hurt more than the last.

But what hurt more than the physical violence was the psychological torment. He would tell me I was worthless, that no one would love me the way he did, that I was lucky he even cared enough to keep me. He’d say I was stupid, fat, ugly. He’d call me names, degrade me, make me feel like a shell of the person I once was. I started to believe him. I started to think maybe I wasn’t good enough.

As the months went on, the violence became more brutal, more aggressive. I started to fear him. He’d corner me, shout at me until I couldn’t breathe, and then—then—he would choke me. I’d gasp for air, my hands clawing at his, trying to pull them away from my neck, but he was too strong. I couldn’t fight him off. He wouldn’t stop until I felt like I was suffocating—until I was gasping, struggling to breathe, my throat raw and sore from his grip.

One time, after a long argument, he took it even further. He pinned me down and tried to gouge my eyes out with his fingers. I felt his hands digging into my face, pushing hard on my eyelids. I feared in that moment that he might actually take my eyes—blind me forever. I remember screaming, but it didn’t matter. His rage consumed him. I was nothing but an object to him, something to be controlled, something to be destroyed.

And when he wasn’t trying to suffocate me or gouge my eyes out, he was biting me—biting my face, my arms, my neck. He would sink his teeth into my flesh like I was prey. His bites left scars—deep, painful marks that didn’t heal for weeks. I would cover them up, wear long sleeves, wear makeup to

He never punched me in the face—that was what I told myself to make it okay. If he didn’t hit me in the face, it wasn’t that bad, right? I tried to normalize it, to tell myself it was just him “losing control” or “having a bad day.” But every day, it got worse. The bruises didn’t just appear on my arms or legs anymore. They were on my heart, my soul, my mind.

I was locked in. Trapped in a cycle of pain, gasping for breath, praying for relief that never came. When I started to gather the strength to leave, the abuse took on every form—physical, mental, emotional, sexual, financial. I tried to hide it all, hide it from everyone—just so I could be the “perfect version” of myself, the one he demanded, the one that wouldn’t set him off.

But nothing was enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

I was just his. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He’d leave for days, sleep with other women, and wouldn’t even bother hiding it. He didn’t care about the devastation it caused. When I cried, when I begged him for just a little bit of respect, he punished me harder. He’d call me weak, pathetic, worthless. I would cry myself to sleep, but the next day, it would be worse. Always worse.

The final chapter. The chapter I felt in my bones—my last struggle. I had already tried to leave once, after another night of him strangling me. Him smashing pictures over my head I escaped, I ran out in the street, after trying to escape he threw me on the floor I woke up disoriented. I knew I couldn’t keep living like this.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, admitting to my family what was happening. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I sent them pictures of my bruises, my body marked by his rage. I finally told them, If anything happens to me, it will be because I’ve died in his hands. And I meant it. I knew what he was capable of, and I was terrified.

But my sister-in-law, she convinced me. She told me it was time to leave. Not just for me, but for my son. So, the next day, I called Women’s Aid.

That call? It was my lifeline.

I’ll never forget the woman on the other end of the line. She didn’t tell me that everything would be easy. She didn’t promise me a perfect life. But she gave me something I hadn’t had in so long: hope. She told me to pack a grab bag. To get out. She gave me the words that would change my life forever: “An abuser is like trying to turn a cat into a dog. They will never change.”

was broken. Completely shattered.

But those words—those words started to make sense. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t overreacting. He wouldn’t change. He couldn’t. And as long as I stayed, I would keep dying a little more every day.

The day I arrived at the refuge, I was a shell of a person. A bag of bones. Hollowed out, I . I had nothing but a few bags—mostly my son’s clothes and toys, because at that point, he was the only thing that mattered to me anymore. I wasn’t even sure I could breathe without him.

When the worker opened the door of the taxi, she saw the brokenness in me. I didn’t even know how to speak. I couldn’t walk. I was terrified. But she whispered, “Annabell, you’re safe now. And held me tightly, I couldn’t walk, the workers carried me in, gave me food and a cup of tea.

And in that moment, I felt like I could finally let go. I let go of the weight I had been carrying for so long. I was safe.

The workers at the refuge—they didn’t treat me like a victim. They treated me like a person, like I mattered. They didn’t judge me, didn’t make me feel like I had done something wrong. For the first time in so long, I felt human again.

I had my own room. A bathroom. A living room. It wasn’t just a shelter. It was a place to start over., I thought it would be a miserable, bleak place, full of women in bunk beds, but it was nothing like that. It was a haven. A home. The women gave me everything I needed to heal.

They gave a welcome box of toiletries even hair growth shampoo, most of my hair had been pulled out already The basics, yes, but it was so much more. It was care. It was someone showing me, you matter. They gave me space to breathe. They gave me space to cry. They gave me hope again.

I remember waking up every morning and seeing printed-out affirmations on my mirror that one of the workers gave me. . Simple words like, You are worthy. You are loved. You are enough. They weren’t just words. They were reminders. They reminded me of who I was before everything happened.

The workers didn’t just help me survive—they helped me live. They gave me the courage to report my abuser. They walked with me through the entire court process, through doctor’s appointments, through the worst parts of the trauma. They gave me hope when I had none.

They became more than just helpers. They became family. Most of them had been through what I had—they knew. And every day, they reminded me that I was capable of more than I believed.

Because of them, I’m no longer afraid. Because of them, I’ve started rebuilding my life. I’m building a career. I’m planning holidays with my son. I’m living, really living, not just surviving.

The Call to Action: Help Us Help More Survivors

There’s so much I can never fully put into words. Some things are too painful, too raw, to share. And in the interest of those reading this, I won’t go into details that could trigger deep pain. But if I can reach just one woman, if I can show one person that there’s a way out, that there’s help and hope, then every tear I shed, every moment of fear, every second of pain will be worth it.

With your donations, you can help:

• £8 could buy a pair of fleecy pyjamas for a woman fleeing domestic abuse

• £16 could buy a bra and a pack of knickers for a woman fleeing domestic abuse

• £24 could buy a set of towels for a woman living in refuge

• £40 could buy a ring doorbell to keep a woman safe in her home

• £52 could buy a week’s worth of groceries for two people living in refuge

• £12 could buy toiletries (shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant) for a woman in refuge for one month

• £10 could buy feminine hygiene products for a woman in refuge for one month

In 2023 alone, over 22,000 people reached out to the helpline. Over 6,000 received support from our community services. Domestic violence affects one in four women. How many do you know?

We want to change the narrative. We want to stop asking “Why didn’t she leave?” and start asking “How can we help?” Leaving an abusive relationship isn’t easy. It’s not safe. But with support, it’s possible.

Please, donate today. Help us help more survivorse.

Thank you for reading my story 💜💜