The Fear Ends Here

I choose ME

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  • When Panic Attacks Take Over

    Lately, I’ve been experiencing panic attacks. It’s hard to even put into words what they feel like, but I’ll try because maybe someone else out there is going through the same thing and feels as alone as I do.

    For me, it starts with a tightness in my chest, like someone is pressing down and I can’t get enough air. Then comes the overwhelming feeling that I’m about to burst, like my body and mind can’t hold it all in anymore. The tears come fast and uncontrollably, and suddenly I can’t catch my breath. In that moment, it feels like I’m losing all control of myself.

    What I’ve since learned is that panic attacks aren’t “just in your head.” They’re your body’s alarm system going off. It’s the fight-or-flight response — adrenaline and stress hormones flooding your system, preparing you for danger. Except the danger isn’t real. The alarm is broken, and it keeps going off anyway.

    Your heart races, your breathing speeds up, your body shakes, and your mind screams “something is terribly wrong.” It feels terrifying. But what’s important to know — even though it doesn’t feel like it, is that panic attacks aren’t physically dangerous. They build quickly, usually peak within ten minutes, and then eventually pass.

    The real damage is what comes after: the exhaustion, the shakiness, and the constant fear of the next one. That’s where I am right now, drained, fragile, and trying to find my strength again.

    If you’ve never had one, it might be hard to understand. But if you have, you’ll know how real they feel. They’re not drama, they’re not weakness, and they’re not something you can just “snap out of.” They’re your body’s way of saying: you’ve carried too much for too long.

    I’m learning that part of healing is not only surviving them but also speaking about them. Because silence only feeds the fear.

    The fear ends here — I choose to name it, I choose to face it.

  • It’s One Thing When It’s Me — But Not My Kids

    This week has broken me in ways I didn’t expect. I’ve let all the stress build up and it’s finally showing in my body. The panic attacks have started, one even happening in front of my doctor. She signed me off work because I’m no longer functioning — and that scares me.

    I keep telling myself to hold it together for the kids. To smile through the cruel comments, to carry the weight of the house, to pretend everything’s fine. But it’s getting harder when he’s constantly shouting, undermining me, and tearing me down. And on top of that, I’m still trying to navigate teenage hormones and the normal chaos of parenting.

    This morning he called me “a clown, an excuse of a person, a moran, brain dead.” Words meant to humiliate and crush me. I’ve lived with comments like that for too long — pretending I could take it, convincing myself I was strong enough to rise above it. But it’s not strength to tolerate abuse. It’s survival. And survival isn’t enough anymore.

    My eldest has no respect for her dad anymore. She said to me, “If he treated me with respect, I would respect him. But he doesn’t — he treats me like nothing.” Hearing that broke me. She sees and feels the same lack of respect I’ve lived with for years, and it’s destroying their relationship. Watching that happen is heartbreaking.

    This week, he shouted up the stairs about how amazing her younger sister was — while basically calling her a loser. He has no idea of her worth, her strength, her brilliance. Later, when I needed a phone charger for the girls, he said, “I’ll give it to our younger daughter but not the eldest. She’ll get nothing from me.”

    That’s not discipline. That’s not parenting. That’s cruelty. And my heart is breaking watching the impact it has on her.

    I’ve put up with his behaviour towards me for far too long. But I will not tolerate him treating my kids like this. It’s one thing when it’s me — but not my children. My kids mean everything to me. They are the reason I’ve kept going this long. But now I know I need to get them out of this house. For their sake and for mine. Because holding it together isn’t enough anymore — we deserve more than survival.

    Because holding it together isn’t enough anymore. The fear ends here — I choose us.

  • The Weight I Carry Isn’t Just Mine

    When grief and control weigh you down in more ways than one

    I don’t recognise myself anymore.

    I used to be fit, healthy, the kind of person who loved being out and about. Now I look in the mirror and feel disgusting. I avoid meeting people sometimes because I can’t bear the thought of them seeing me like this. The person staring back at me isn’t who I remember being.

    The truth is, this weight didn’t just appear from nowhere. It started in grief. When my daughter died, I was broken — but instead of having a partner to lean on, I had another burden to carry. He took to his bed, shut himself away from our lives, and left me to deal with everything. I was grieving for her and carrying him at the same time. It was too much.

    And since then, the weight has stayed. Layer after layer of stress, of cortisol, of guilt, of exhaustion. They say stress changes your body, and I believe it. Years of walking on eggshells, of managing his moods, of carrying silence and insults and punishments, it shows up on me. On my body.

    It’s not just about how I feel — it’s about how other people see me. I’ve even been asked before if I was expecting. The shame and humiliation of moments like that make me want to hide away, to cancel plans, to stop showing up.

    And he doesn’t let me forget it either. When he calls me “Ms Piggy,” it cuts into the very part of me I already hate. It makes me want to shrink into myself even more.

    This is what abuse does. It’s not just the words, not just the fear, not just the silence. It’s the way it creeps under your skin until you carry it in your body. Until you don’t feel at home in yourself anymore.

    I know deep down this weight isn’t just mine. It’s the grief, the silence, the constant fight-or-flight. And maybe one day, when I’m free, my body will feel lighter because my mind finally is.

  • When Joy Comes With Punishment

    This weekend reminded me just how exhausting it is to live in this cycle.

    I had a family party on Saturday, a big, special celebration. In the days leading up to it, I almost didn’t want to go. I hate the way I look at the minute. I’ve put on so much weight, I feel disgusting, like I don’t belong beside all the beautiful women around me. And when he calls me “Ms Piggy” the cruel nickname he throws at me it doesn’t help my confidence.

    But I wanted to feel good, just for one night. So I booked in with Charlotte Tilbury to get my makeup done with a friend. I thought, if I can’t change my body right now, maybe at least I can feel beautiful again for a few hours. And it worked. Looking in the mirror, I felt like a different version of myself. Almost like I was in my twenties again. Excited. Free.

    Getting out the door, though, was stressful. He had been ignoring me for three days straight, punishing me with silence, and when I asked him if he could drop the kids to and from a party, he wouldn’t even lift his head. I asked again in front of my daughter, and he ignored her too. In the end, I had to scramble and make other arrangements with parents. By the time I finally got there, I was already drained.

    Maybe that’s why I let loose. For a few hours, I escaped. The party was fancy, with catering, bar staff, champagne flowing non-stop. The laughter was endless, the music perfect, and I even found myself dancing with a friend’s walking stick like it was a pole. Silly, harmless, pure fun. I laughed until my cheeks hurt, and for those few hours, the weight lifted.

    I didn’t get home until five in the morning, and by the time I had tea and toast, it was six before I crawled into bed. I woke later to check on the kids, but of course, they were still asleep — teenagers love their lie-ins. I smiled, thinking how good it felt to just be me for a night.

    But then the house rattled.

    Music blared from his room so loud it shook the walls, even though he wasn’t in there, he was downstairs, letting it thunder through the whole house. I begged him to turn it down, but he ignored me completely, like I didn’t exist.

    That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t about music. This was punishment. For staying out late. For laughing. For remembering who I am without him.

    And when he finally came back, the switch had flipped again. Suddenly he was chatty, sitting too close, rubbing my arm and my leg even when I asked him to stop. He kept saying he was sorry, but never once said for what. Not for ignoring me. Not for ignoring the kids. Not for making us invisible for days. Just “sorry,” like that word was enough.

    The truth is, I’m exhausted. I sit there numb because I don’t have the energy to argue anymore. Sometimes I think the only way he’ll ever get the picture is if I move out, but I don’t have the money for that yet. So I stay. And the cycle keeps spinning.

    I’ve been told my weight gain is stress, high cortisol, my body’s way of surviving in constant fight-or-flight. Maybe once I have a new life, I’ll feel good again. Maybe I’ll find myself again.

    What I know is this: love isn’t supposed to feel like punishment. Love isn’t supposed to cost you your joy. And the longer this goes on, the more certain I am that I deserve better.

  • The Exhaustion of Never-Ending Control

    This week has left me drained in a way I can’t fully explain. Living in this cycle is like being on a ride that never stops — begging, threats, silence, then sudden “love.” Over and over again.

    On Wednesday, he begged me for forgiveness. He promised me things he’s never done before — said he wanted to change, to try, to make me happy. I told him no. He didn’t stop. He pressed, and pressed, until I finally said that my friends wanted me to get a restraining order. That’s when he snapped.

    He went mad, shouting about how he’s “never hit me in 25 years,” as if the absence of bruises erases all the other scars. He told me if we divorce, I won’t be able to afford a house, I won’t be able to go out because there will be no one to mind the kids, that he’ll cut all ties, not just with me, but with our children too.

    When those threats didn’t get him what he wanted, he shifted to silence. He ignored us all for three days. Blank stares. Blocking me on WhatsApp. Walking past me and the kids like we weren’t even there. We didn’t exist.

    I had a busy weekend with the kids and even a party to go to, but instead of supporting me, he punished me. He said, “If you want to talk to me, go through a solicitor.” The house felt heavy with his absence, not the good kind, but the kind that presses down like a weight.

    And then, the switch flipped again. He came back chatty, full of questions about my night out, sitting too close, rubbing my arm and my leg even when I asked him to stop. When I told him I was uncomfortable, he just grinned and stayed where he was.

    He kept saying he loved me. He kept saying he was sorry. But not once did he say for what. Not once did he admit the hurt he caused.

    I told him again: you can’t go from ignoring me and the kids for days to suddenly deciding everything’s fine. You can’t punish us with silence and then expect me to melt when you turn on the charm.

    And yet, I didn’t shout. I didn’t storm out. I just sat there, numb. Because I’m exhausted. Because part of me fears his reaction if I push too hard. Because years of this cycle have worn me down to a shadow of myself.

    Sometimes I think the only way he’ll ever understand is if I move out. But I don’t have the money for that yet. So I’m here, trying to hold my ground, feeling like I’m running out of strength.

    I know I don’t want this. I know I can’t live like this. But when you’re in it, when the cycle keeps spinning, it makes you question everything.

    What I do know is this: love isn’t supposed to feel like walking on eggshells. Love isn’t supposed to drain you until there’s nothing left. And the longer this goes on, the more certain I am that I deserve better.

  • The Hardest Part

    People think the hardest part of leaving is making the decision. But the truth is, the hardest part is sticking to it.

    It’s the constant repeating: “No, it’s over.”

    It’s the exhaustion of having the same conversation again and again with someone who refuses to hear you.

    It’s waking up drained because you know he will try, yet again, to break you down.

    And then there’s the guilt. The guilt of saying no to someone who swears they love you. The guilt of seeing them cry, or beg, or promise to change. The guilt of hurting them, even though they have hurt you over and over again.

    From the outside, people don’t understand this guilt. They’ve seen the names, the cruelty, the years of control. They see the pain he has caused me, and they can’t understand how I could possibly feel sorry for him. Honestly, I don’t understand it myself. How can I feel heartbreak for someone who has treated me this way? What is wrong with me?

    And then there are the doubts he plants. He tells me I won’t make it on my own, that I won’t have the money to afford a house or to live. Those words stick. They swirl around in my head late at night, making me question if he’s right. Is he my safety net? Or is he just the cage I’ve been trapped in? His voice feeds the fear of what life will be like by myself, and sometimes that fear feels louder than my own strength.

    But that’s what abuse does. It twists love into something unrecognisable. It keeps you tied to the hope of the person you thought he was, while battling the reality of who he is. It leaves you feeling guilty for protecting yourself, and fearful of whether you’re strong enough to stand alone.

    What I am learning is this: every time I say no, I am standing up for myself. I am standing up for my children. I am showing them that love is not supposed to hurt, and that respect matters.

    They need to see me hold my boundaries, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

    So yes, I feel guilty. I feel exhausted. I sometimes wonder how much more I have in me. But every no I speak is a step closer to freedom. Every no is a reminder that I deserve more than pain dressed up as love.

    The guilt will fade. The exhaustion will pass. The fear will lessen. And the strength of standing my ground — that will last.

    The Fear Ends Here. I Choose Me.

    🌸 To any woman reading this who feels the same guilt or fear:

    You are not weak for doubting yourself — it means his control is working the way it’s designed to. But that fear and guilt are not proof that you can’t make it. They are signs of how much strength it takes to leave. You are capable. You are stronger than you know. And you are not alone.

  • Abuse Isn’t Always Physical

    For years, I told myself “he never hit me, so maybe it’s not really abuse.”

    But abuse isn’t always about bruises. Abuse takes many forms — and I have lived through more than one.

    💔 Verbal Abuse

    Being called useless, stupid, brain dead, a waste of space — over and over until you start to believe it. When it’s said in front of children, the damage is doubled: you shrink, and they learn that disrespect is normal.

    💔 Emotional Abuse

    It’s the ignoring, the stonewalling, the refusing to talk for days. It’s making you question yourself until you start to wonder if maybe you really are the problem. It’s being told the relationship is over, that he wished he never met you — only for him to later deny it, acting as though you imagined it.

    💔 Psychological Abuse

    It’s walking on eggshells every day. It’s never knowing what mood will come through the door. It’s the yelling, the sulking, the objects thrown, the tension that fills the house until even the children are afraid. It’s the exhaustion of living in permanent fear of the next explosion.

    💔 Financial Abuse

    It’s having to explain every penny you’ve spent and why. It’s being interrogated over receipts, made to feel guilty for buying even small things for yourself. It’s control through money — keeping you anxious, accountable, and dependent.

    💔 Lifestyle Abuse

    It’s refusing to work, sleeping the day away, leaving you to carry everything — the bills, the home, the children. It’s creating instability so you never feel supported, never feel secure, never feel like you can count on him.

    💔 Coercive Control

    It’s the invisible chains: making you feel like you have to rush home, have dinner ready, keep the house spotless, manage everyone’s moods. It’s not said outright, but it’s demanded in the silence, the stares, the punishments when you don’t comply. It’s shaping your whole life around his moods until you lose sight of yourself.

    💔 Gaslighting

    It’s being told “I never made you do that” when you know you did it to avoid his anger. It’s being told “I didn’t mean it” after cruel words have already cut you down. It’s being told “I didn’t see the divorce coming” when he spent years telling you he wished you’d never met. Gaslighting makes you doubt your own memory, your own feelings, your own truth.

    💔 Manipulation

    It’s the guilt-trips, the “I love yous,” the promises to change. It’s going to counselling not to grow, but to prove to you that he had changed. It’s using the grief of losing your daughter as an excuse for cruelty, while you carried yourself every day for the girls. Grief doesn’t excuse abuse. Anger doesn’t excuse abuse.

    I see it now: abuse doesn’t have to leave bruises to leave scars. Abuse is any behaviour that makes you feel small, scared, worthless, or trapped. And I have lived through them all.

    The hardest part was realising that what I thought was “normal” was actually abuse. The truth is, love should never make you afraid of the person you share your home with.

    To anyone questioning themselves like I did: abuse isn’t just physical. If your voice has been silenced, if your worth has been stripped away, if your peace has been stolen — you are not imagining it.

    You deserve better. You deserve freedom.

    The Fear Ends Here. I Choose Me.

  • Walking on eggshells

    For as long as I can remember, I have walked on eggshells, always trying to avoid setting him off. I would rush home before he arrived so dinner would be ready, because he liked to eat at the same time every night. I would quickly clean up the kids’ toys, trying to make everything perfect. I never knew what mood would come through the door. If he was happy, the whole house could breathe. But if he was in a mood, we would all know about it.

    He says now that he never made me clean or come home at a certain time. Maybe that’s true. Maybe I did it to myself. But why did I do it? Because it felt safer. Because I knew that if I didn’t, the silence, the anger, the throwing things, or the days of being ignored would follow. Maybe I was the one who set all those boundaries for myself and my kids, not out of love, but out of fear.

    That’s the thing about living on eggshells: you train yourself to shrink, to bend, to sacrifice parts of yourself just to keep the peace. And in the process, you stop feeling free in your own home.

    I don’t want my children to think this is what love looks like. I don’t want them to believe this is normal. So I am learning — slowly, painfully, to step off the eggshells and take up my space again.

    The Fear Ends Here. I Choose Me

  • Learning to Stand Up to the Bully

    No one understands me. Some days, I don’t even understand myself. Does anyone else ever feel like that?

    I filed for divorce because I realised this isn’t a normal relationship. But he laughs at me, tells me I’m overreacting, insists he doesn’t control me. He begs for another chance, and every time he does, my heart cracks a little. It makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong, even though deep down I know I haven’t.

    My family and friends can’t understand why I still feel for him. They’ve seen the pain he’s caused me. They remind me of the heartache, the disrespect, the words he’s used against me. They know all of it. And still, here I am, doubting myself. Maybe it’s because I’ve been conditioned to this life. This has always been our pattern: he explodes over something, ignores me for days until I apologise for things I didn’t even do, and then—eventually—he’s nice again. Until the next storm. That cycle became my normal.

    And I allowed it. For years, I let it happen. I’m still allowing it sometimes, and I hate myself for that. Because it’s not just about me anymore. I’m doing this for my kids too. I want to show them this is not what love looks like. I don’t want them repeating this cycle or thinking it’s okay to treat someone—or be treated—this way. They’ve heard the names he’s called me. They’ve seen me shrink. They’ve lived in this tension too.

    One of my children said to me, “Mum, you let Dad treat you like shit.” Hearing that was a breaking point. That’s when I realised something had to change. I need to show them bullying isn’t okay—for children or adults. And that means standing up to the bully.

    I’m tired of walking on eggshells, terrified of upsetting their dad. I used to be such a positive, happy person, but I’ve let him dull my light and crush my confidence. When you’re told over and over that you’re useless, stupid, a waste of space, you start to believe it.

    But not anymore. It’s going to take time, but I am rebuilding. Slowly, I’m remembering who I am. And this time, I refuse to let him define me.

    The Fear Ends Here. I Choose Me.

  • Why Am I So Afraid?

    Last night I woke from a nightmare that he hurt me. I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, afraid to even go to the bathroom in case he realised I was awake and came into my room. I could hear that he was awake too, and my mind wouldn’t stop racing.

    I keep asking myself: why am I so scared? He has never hit me. Yes, he has thrown things. Yes, his moods swing from calm to angry without warning. But he has never raised a hand to me. Still, my body feels the fear. It lives in me now.

    Sometimes I wonder if there are warning signs — the kind you only recognise after it’s too late. Families you read about in the news, where one partner snaps and does the unthinkable. Do they see it coming? Do they feel what I feel?

    My family and friends tell me they are worried for me. They say he’s unhinged, that his moods are dangerous, and that he could hurt us. They say he is angry that I am standing my ground with this divorce. But then I start questioning myself. Am I scared of him, or am I scared because of what they are telling me? I didn’t believe them before when they said he was emotionally abusing me and controlling me. So should I believe them now? Or are they overreacting?

    This is what emotional abuse does — it makes you doubt your own feelings, your own safety, even your own fear. It twists your reality until you question yourself at every turn.

    I don’t have all the answers yet. My head still spins with questions. But one truth cuts through the noise: I shouldn’t be scared in my own home.

    This is where I am — scared, questioning, but slowly finding my strength. Writing it down is my way of starting to take that power back.

    The Fear Ends Here. I Choose Me.