My abuser died – why am I sad about it?

This article refers to domestic violence and suicide.

For years I harbored a secret that I was too ashamed to tell even my closest friends. I regularly checked the national death certificates to see if my insulting ex-boyfriend was still alive. I did this for over a decade because I often wished he were dead. When I entered his details into the search engine this month, his name appeared instead of returning no results. He was gone. I expected to be relieved when I found out Connor* was dead, but instead I was overcome with sadness and I started crying. Why was I upset after what he did to me?

I first met Connor when I was seventeen. He was funny, intelligent and charming; he was also 16 years older than me, a huge red flag for everyone but me. He showered me with attention and affection, which was flattering at first, but later suffocating.

We worked together, so we spent every waking moment in each other’s company. He subtly belittled me in front of colleagues, picked on my insecurities, and reinforced every negative thought I ever had about myself. He poisoned me against my family (who could tell early on that he was bad news), creating an estrangement that would take years to heal. When my friends invited me over, he made me feel guilty about staying home. Friends stopped contacting me and I became increasingly dependent on Connor.

Because this was my first serious one relationI had no frame of reference or indication that his behavior was disturbing. I didn’t know abuse could happen without violence.

When the first act of violence happened, I felt like I had done something to deserve it. The violence was followed by a tearful apology and an assurance that it would never happen again. But that did happen. I lived in shameI didn’t tell anyone about the abuse, not even my parents, because I believed what happened was my fault.

Connor would drink every night and start off with a happy buzz, then reach a point where his mood changed and he became a different person. I could never have predicted that mood swing; I always found out too late when he flew into a rage.

During the three years we were together, I tried to leave and contact shelters, but they were always full. I lived in a state of fear and hypervigilance, barely able to speak in case I said something that would trigger Connor’s anger. When Connor was in a violent mood, he told me that if I reported him to the police, he would kill me. I believed him.

One day I wore a short-sleeved top to work despite bruises on my arms. One of Connor’s friends, Johnny*, asked what happened. I told the truth: ‘Connor grabbed my arms and screamed in my face because I made him mad.’ Johnny didn’t seem shocked: “I had my suspicions; he has always been a bit short-tempered.”

I was shocked. His friends knew what he was capable of, but no one did anything about it. I told Johnny that I wanted to leave Connor, but I needed his friends to stage an intervention about his violent temper since they were all apparently aware of it. Johnny agreed to round up Connor’s friends to talk to him after work so I had time to go home and pack my bags.

I hurriedly packed my things and took a taxi to my parents’ house without warning. My mother opened the door for me and held my life in garbage bags with bruises on my arms. She picked me up and held me as I cried. I didn’t tell her what happened; I just asked if I could come home. She said, “I’ve been wanting you to come home for three years, honey.”

I have no idea what Connor’s friends said to him, but he never contacted me again. I called in sick for a week and then resigned because I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him at work. I needed a clean break.