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You’d think I would’ve learned by now. But I haven’t.
I’ve made the same mistake more than once, and I still don’t fully understand what it is about me that keeps attracting men like this into my life.
It’s been a year since I left another violent relationship. This time, I married him. I really thought he would be my ever after.
I met him not long after I got off home detention. I was still on parole. I couldn’t wait to get that clunky shackle off my ankle, to finally have some freedom of movement. Even though parole still meant restrictions, at least I could leave the house when I wanted, take my daughter out for the day, feel like a “normal” family again.
And then I met him. He felt like freedom. He was what I thought I needed after six years caught up in the system. He took me camping, we bought a campervan, and we dreamed of outback adventures – fireside dinners by the beach, soaking our feet in the waters of my mother’s country, sandy toes, windswept hair, salty kisses under burnt orange skies. It felt like I’d finally found home.
It sounds too good to be true, right? That’s because it was.
What he offered me was a dream – a fantasy.
The DV experts call it future faking: when someone lures you in with promises of a beautiful future, just to gain control over you. The promises aren’t real. They’re just tools to make you stay, to distract you from the red flags and excuse their bad behaviour.
I fell for it all – hook, line and sinker. The travel, the freedom, the carefree life. I believed in it. I wanted to believe in it.
We moved in together. I brought the kids. We got married. We started building a life, or so I thought.
You’d think I would’ve learned by now. But I haven’t.
I’ve made the same mistake more than once, and I still don’t fully understand what it is about me that keeps attracting men like this into my life.
It’s been a year since I left another violent relationship. This time, I married him. I really thought he would be my ever after.
I met him not long after I got off home detention. I was still on parole. I couldn’t wait to get that clunky shackle off my ankle, to finally have some freedom of movement. Even though parole still meant restrictions, at least I could leave the house when I wanted, take my daughter out for the day, feel like a “normal” family again.
And then I met him. He felt like freedom. He was what I thought I needed after six years caught up in the system. He took me camping, we bought a campervan, and we dreamed of outback adventures – fireside dinners by the beach, soaking our feet in the waters of my mother’s country, sandy toes, windswept hair, salty kisses under burnt orange skies. It felt like I’d finally found home.
It sounds too good to be true, right? That’s because it was.
What he offered me was a dream – a fantasy.
The DV experts call it future faking: when someone lures you in with promises of a beautiful future, just to gain control over you. The promises aren’t real. They’re just tools to make you stay, to distract you from the red flags and excuse their bad behaviour.
I fell for it all – hook, line and sinker. The travel, the freedom, the carefree life. I believed in it. I wanted to believe in it.
We moved in together. I brought the kids. We got married. We started building a life, or so I thought.
But slowly, the control crept in. Subtle. Clever. Coated in love.
He said he came to my counselling sessions because he loved me and wanted to support me. He didn’t tell me what to wear, but he got angry if I wore something “too revealing” when he wasn’t there. He’d accuse me of dressing for someone else. He isolated me from friends and family, saying, “We only need each other. That’s enough.” He checked my phone daily. My passcode was written on the whiteboard on our fridge, like I was a child. It was humiliating.
This is what coercive control looks like.
Coercive control is when someone uses fear, isolation or manipulation to dominate another person. The behaviours can seem small on their own, but together they form a web – one that’s hard to see from the inside. You feel stuck. Trapped. Like you can’t say no, can’t disagree, can’t move.
Sometimes coercive control looks like monitoring your every move. Sometimes it’s controlling your meds, food or body. Sometimes it’s constant criticism until you doubt your own thoughts. It can be stopping you from practising your culture or religion. It can look like messing with co-parenting arrangements or withholding child support to punish you after a breakup.
For me, it was financial control.
Because of my criminal record and bankruptcy, none of our business accounts could be in my name. That gave him full control over our money – and over me. I had to ask every time I needed something for myself or the kids.
And that control gave him the space to escalate – from words to violence.
By the time I realised how deep I was in, it was hard to find a way out. But I waited. I waited until parole was over. Then, with the support of Sisters Inside, I got out. I got the kids out.
I’m sharing this because I want you to know: your worth is not up for debate. When I got out of prison, I was so beaten down by life that I didn’t believe I deserved anything good. I settled for the first person who offered me attention, who promised me freedom. But he wasn’t my freedom. He was my jailer. He held the keys to my cage for years.
But no more. I want you to know:
Before prison.
Inside prison.
After prison.
You are worthy of love.
You are worthy of safety.
You are worthy of care and respect.
No matter what you’ve done. No matter who you’ve been.
Please don’t settle like I did.
And if you find yourself in that dark place – trapped like I was – reach out. Reach for the sisters you met inside. Reach for Sisters Inside, the National Network, Figjam, Voice of Hope, Seeds of Affinity. These are your people. They will help you plan your way out.
Because there is a big, wide world out here – and the prison system cannot take that from us.
But slowly, the control crept in. Subtle. Clever. Coated in love.
He said he came to my counselling sessions because he loved me and wanted to support me. He didn’t tell me what to wear, but he got angry if I wore something “too revealing” when he wasn’t there. He’d accuse me of dressing for someone else. He isolated me from friends and family, saying, “We only need each other. That’s enough.” He checked my phone daily. My passcode was written on the whiteboard on our fridge, like I was a child. It was humiliating.
This is what coercive control looks like.
Coercive control is when someone uses fear, isolation or manipulation to dominate another person. The behaviours can seem small on their own, but together they form a web – one that’s hard to see from the inside. You feel stuck. Trapped. Like you can’t say no, can’t disagree, can’t move.
Sometimes coercive control looks like monitoring your every move. Sometimes it’s controlling your meds, food or body. Sometimes it’s constant criticism until you doubt your own thoughts. It can be stopping you from practising your culture or religion. It can look like messing with co-parenting arrangements or withholding child support to punish you after a breakup.
For me, it was financial control.
Because of my criminal record and bankruptcy, none of our business accounts could be in my name. That gave him full control over our money – and over me. I had to ask every time I needed something for myself or the kids.
And that control gave him the space to escalate – from words to violence.
By the time I realised how deep I was in, it was hard to find a way out. But I waited. I waited until parole was over. Then, with the support of Sisters Inside, I got out. I got the kids out.
I’m sharing this because I want you to know: your worth is not up for debate. When I got out of prison, I was so beaten down by life that I didn’t believe I deserved anything good. I settled for the first person who offered me attention, who promised me freedom. But he wasn’t my freedom. He was my jailer. He held the keys to my cage for years.
But no more. I want you to know:
Before prison.
Inside prison.
After prison.
You are worthy of love.
You are worthy of safety.
You are worthy of care and respect.
No matter what you’ve done. No matter who you’ve been.
Please don’t settle like I did.
And if you find yourself in that dark place – trapped like I was – reach out. Reach for the sisters you met inside. Reach for Sisters Inside, the National Network, Figjam, Voice of Hope, Seeds of Affinity. These are your people. They will help you plan your way out.
Because there is a big, wide world out here – and the prison system cannot take that from us.
I put the window down, and the wind rushed through my hair, and, as if by magical happenstance, How to Make Gravy came on the radio. His voice rolled out like it was coming from someone familiar, telling the story of Joe, writing home from prison before Christmas.
I had repeated this phrase to people so many times to emphasise how incredibly unbelievable it is that I failed English and am now going to be a published author.
I remember Christmas in prison fondly. I was with all my closest friends – my only friends. When they send you to jail, everyone and everything you have goes away.
I’d never have guessed at the amount of movement happening within the prison system. Not just within a particular prison – that in itself was eye-opening – but movement between prisons.
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Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
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