When fear becomes normal: in rebecca’s words

Domestic and family violence is not always visible. It does not always leave physical injuries, and the people experiencing it may spend years questioning whether what is happening to them is serious enough to “count”.

Rebecca, whose name has been changed to protect her privacy, is a member of the Run Against Violence community. She has generously chosen to share her experience of almost two decades of coercive control and psychological abuse in the hope that it may help someone else recognise the signs, feel less alone or begin to trust their own experience.

Her story also shows that leaving does not always bring an immediate end to fear or trauma. Recovery can be slow, complicated and largely unseen by those around you.

We are sharing Rebecca’s story because listening to lived experience helps us understand the forms violence can take, challenge the assumptions that keep it hidden and respond to people with greater empathy.

This story includes references to coercive control, psychological abuse, firearms and threats of suicide. Some readers may find it confronting. Please take care while reading.

In Rebecca's Words

I used to think domestic violence had to be physical.

I thought it meant bruises, broken bones, shouting loud enough for neighbours to hear. I did not understand that it could also look like fear, control, humiliation, intimidation and slowly disappearing inside your own life.

It could look like being told everything was your fault until you believed it. It could look like becoming anxious, withdrawn and afraid to say the wrong thing. It could look like spending years trying to fix yourself while never being allowed to question the behaviour hurting you.

I left after close to twenty years of psychological abuse, gaslighting and coercive control.

That sentence sounds simple. It was not simple.

I had tried to leave before. Once, I packed my belongings and went to my parents’ home. I went back after promises that things would change, and because I was told I should not subject the children to growing up without their father. I wanted to believe that if I loved enough, waited long enough or tried harder, things could still be different.

Many survivors know that hope.

Within months, I was again anxious, depressed and convinced the real problem was me.

When I finally said I was leaving for good, the first response was not remorse. It was: Where are you going to go?

This time, I had a plan.

That night, after telling me he was suicidal and overwhelmed, he got out of bed and later returned carrying firearms. He put them away again the next morning and went to work as though nothing had happened.

I barely slept. I lay awake wondering whether I, or my children, were safe.

I remember thinking that fear had become so normal that even terror felt like something I was expected to endure quietly.

What followed was something many survivors recognise. Even while I was leaving, I was still expected to manage his crisis. I was making calls, rearranging my own responsibilities, helping organise support, trying to keep the children steady and still planning how to escape.

Even then, it was still about him.

People often ask why survivors do not “just leave.” Sometimes even after you leave, you are still carrying the person who harmed you.

When I eventually moved into temporary accommodation, it was barely fit to live in. I was trying to clean, organise beds, create safety for the children and build a new life from almost nothing.

At the same time, I learned that separation does not always end abuse. Sometimes it changes shape.

Agreements shifted. Access to the children became leverage. I lived from handover to handover. I lost weight from stress and slept properly only when the children were physically with me.

Every parent in this situation knows the feeling of trying to smile for your children while your body is in panic.

I also learned what gaslighting really does.

It is not just being lied to. It is being trained to doubt your own reality. There were times I questioned whether incidents I knew had happened had really happened the way I remembered. I had lived so long being told I was mistaken, overreacting or imagining things that I no longer trusted my own mind.

That kind of damage does not disappear the day you leave.

One of the hardest parts has been the children.

Trying to protect them without burdening them. Trying to teach healthy relationships while staying calm about unhealthy ones. Watching trauma affect each child differently. Grieving when one child pulls away. Loving them all through it.

No one prepares mothers for that grief.

Years later, contact about parenting matters can still trigger anxiety. A message can make me feel physically ill. Silence can be as unsettling as contact. I can still lose sleep wondering whether I worded something wrongly, whether I should have said less, whether I have somehow caused a problem simply by existing.

If you know, you know.

Around certain times of year, memories return sharply. Trauma keeps calendars.

But so does healing.

I now know peace exists. Sometimes quietly, in ordinary moments. A calm home. A locked door. Children laughing. Going to sleep without waiting for something to explode. Trusting my own thoughts again.

I used to think strength would look dramatic.

Instead, it looked like leaving.
Then staying gone.
Then parenting through fear.
Then rebuilding while exhausted.
Then healing so slowly that almost no one else could see it.

My focus now is making sure my youngest child understands what respectful relationships look like. That love does not come with ultimatums. That nobody owns another person. That kindness and control are not the same thing.

If someone you know seems anxious, confused, withdrawn or unlike themselves, do not assume nothing serious is happening because there are no visible bruises.

If someone leaves and still seems afraid, understand that separation is often the beginning of a new chapter, not the end of the old one.

And if you are reading this wondering whether what happened to you “counts,” please hear me:

If you were made to feel small, afraid, confused, owned, constantly responsible, or unable to be yourself - it counts.

If leaving did not end the damage - it counts.

If you still jump when the phone goes off years later - it counts.

If you miss the person you hoped they would become while knowing you had to leave - it counts.

You are not weak for staying.
You are not foolish for hoping.
You are not broken because it still affects you.

Some of us survived by doubting ourselves.

Healing begins when we stop.

We are deeply grateful to Rebecca for trusting the Run Against Violence community with her story.

Her experience reminds us why recognising coercive control matters, why we must listen without judgement and why a person does not need visible injuries for their fear and trauma to be real.

If Rebecca’s words feel familiar, you do not have to wait until the situation becomes worse or until you are certain what to call it before seeking support. What happened to you matters, and help is available.

If you are worried about someone in your life, listen, believe them and ask how you can support them safely. You do not need to have all the answers to help someone feel seen and less alone.

SUPPORT IS AVAILABLE

If you or someone else is in immediate danger, call Triple Zero (000).

1800RESPECT
National domestic, family and sexual violence counselling, information and support, available 24 hours a day.
Call 1800 737 732
Text 0458 737 732
Visit 1800RESPECT for online chat and video call services.

Lifeline
Confidential crisis support, available 24 hours a day.
Call 13 11 14
Text 0477 13 11 14
Visit Lifeline for online chat.