Tomorrow will be 13 years since my husband died and I’m going to say something radical; I don’t miss him. I still have love for him, we spent 20 years together and he was the father of my amazing son, but I can’t think of any aspect of our relationship that I miss.

Now the haters are going to hate, when discussing Andrew, my husband, I hear a lot about how funny he was, and how his faith was astounding, but they didn’t live with him. I did. I lived with the criticism, the put downs, and the controlling behaviour. The faith that was used to guilt trip me and keep me subdued. And the humour – at my expense.

Five years after he died I realised for the first time that the relationship had been abusive, emotionally and verbally. I would also get the occasional gentle slap, not to hurt but to humiliate. And I was repeatedly told I was stupid. I was allowed no financial independence, he managed the purse strings and consequently ran up debts in my name, knowing he wouldn’t get credit himself due to his terminal illness. I never even knew how much debt we had until after his death. He once told me, gloating, “You’ll have to go begging to your dad after I die!” Yeah. Thanks. If I’d realised when he was still alive just how appallingly I was being treated, maybe I’d have left. But I’m the sort of person who looks for the best in people and gives too many chances.

But it makes for complicated grief. I don’t hate him, but my life is improved by my having my autonomy now. And although I’m in a new relationship, that’s not why I feel like I’m finally over him. In fact the new relationship just highlights how a decent man should treat a woman; love that’s unconditional. No strings. Respectful.

I experienced a trauma reaction earlier today. My partner passed me an electrical item. As far as I was aware it could have been valuable. I faltered as he passed it to me and I dropped it. Outside. On the tarmac. I immediately panicked, was hyperventilating and in tears. I was waiting for the onslaught. Andrew would have yelled for the entire neighbourhood to hear. He’d have belittled me. Big time. But there I was, potentially expensive piece of kit on the ground, bracing myself, and nothing. Crying for nothing.

I think it was the trauma surrounding Andrew’s death that lingers, rather than the loss itself. The speed with which he became so ill, the response of the ambulance crew, him arresting in the ambulance outside our home, them resuscitating him, the dash to resus on blue lights, our son seeing his dad so frail, the reactions of Andrew’s parents and brother. I remember conversations from the resus unit to this day. I remember rushing to ITU when they’d moved him and finding him gone as I got there. The sister told the staff nurse to turn off the monitors and she replied, “Just the alarms?” Which sounded bizarre to me as he’d clearly already flatlined. I looked at the sister and said, “He’s gone, hasn’t he?” But I knew before she replied. You don’t tend to get over those moments.

My mother brought me up not to speak ill of the dead. However if speaking up about domestic abuse (however innocuous) helps one person to escape their circumstances, I personally think it’s worth it. I’m still rebuilding my self worth 13 years on. I still have love for him, but I’m doing better without his notion of love.

Thanks for reading 👼🏻