My Boyfriend, my stalker

“I can’t give away any confidential information,” the police woman said, “but I can strongly advise you to press charges because you might not be the first, second or even third woman to make similar complaints about him. I can suggest that his face his well known.

“Think about it… How many jobs did he have in that year? How many fights did he get in to with strangers? Next time he’ll hurt someone. “You don’t know someone after nine months. You don’t know what they are capable of.”

I didn’t press charges, something I regret to this day, but my complaint remains on his file.

For years I didn’t think the incident affected me: I felt like he was a good boyfriend a lot of the time, and I loved him. We’d had sex hundreds of times before and if he’d asked I probably would have agreed. I didn’t see how one night could change the way I was forever.

I didn’t ever tell anyone because I didn’t want to be a ‘victim’ or, even worse, a ‘survivor’. I hate that term, like half an hour of your life indelibly marks you forever. I didn’t want people to look at me differently, or to question my version of events.