I knew I was in deep trouble. Terrified, I broke into a run,
but the older man grabbed me by the throat, pushed me
to the ground and began to throttle me.
Bizarrely, the other two men turned and casually strolled off as we wrestled on the pavement. His face
was pressed close to mine and his yellow, pro- truding
teeth and bloodshot eyes are still imprint- ed on my
memory; to me, it was like a face from a horror movie. As
he squeezed the air from my lungs, I somehow found the
breath to scream. I remember thinking, ‘No, not like this.
This is not how I want to die.’ He didn’t utter a word: no
demands for my wallet or phone. It was me he wanted. I
didn’t notice the pain at the time but the next day, there
were finger-shaped bruises on my thighs.
I kicked and fought, I don’t know for how long.
Finally my attacker must have realised I wasn’t going to
give in, snatched my bag – a consolation prize – and
took off at a sprint. In an act of fight-or-flight fury that
still shocks me, I kicked off my high heels and followed,
screaming and swearing. I caught up with him and
snatched back my bag, placing it between my body and
the pavement as I belly- flopped to the ground. I have
no idea what would have happened next if a passer-by
hadn’t appeared, forcing my attacker to run off. I lay in
a crumpled, sobbing heap before stumbling home in a
daze. There, I put on my pyjamas as my housemate,
Kate, called the police.
They caught my attacker several hours later,
based on my description. I didn’t ask about him – even
now, all I know is his name and that he had offended
before. The next morning I went to the police station alone
to give my statement. I don’t remember much about it now,
except that my mum’s favourite song, the Pretenders’ I’ll
Stand By You, began playing in the background on Magic
FM. This immediately reduced me to tears. The police
officer interviewing me stopped writing and sent me up to
the flat roof to have a cigarette.
My mother had been driving through the night
from home in the North. When she finally got to me, I
crumpled. The following days are a blur; a doctor’s
appointment, an identity parade. I cried a lot, and I
wouldn’t let Mum leave me alone for a second. A week or
so later, she accompanied me as I tried to return to my
shared house, in a bid to prove to myself that I could still
live there. We barely made it to the corner shop before I
froze, convinced the car crawl- ing up the street contained
a hitman contracted to ‘finish the job’. I was convinced
that bad men were out to get me, and that where one had
failed, anoth- er would succeed. Paranoia such as this is
common in trauma victims, I later learned.
I returned to university a few weeks later, commuting from my grandma’s house just outside Lon- don.
Perhaps because my attacker had been arrest- ed – he
pleaded guilty so I didn’t have to go to court, to my relief –
and because there was no permanent physical damage,
people assumed I would recover quickly. I remember
phoning my father, who’s sep- arated from my mum, to
tell him about the attack – he was very matter of fact: ‘At
least you’re alive.’ When I spoke to family and friends
about the ordeal, it was as though I was describing
something that happened to someone else. I was almost
blasé. ‘You’re coping so well,’ they’d say. But at night,
I’d huddle under my duvet and cry. When I slept, I was
haunted by night- mares of strangling and hanging.
By day I had flash- backs, and as the months went on, it
got worse. I’d been a happy, outgoing person, but now I felt
increas- ingly distant. I avoided socialising, especially after
dark. On the increasingly rare occasions that I went out, I
was vigilant to the point of obsession: every- thing was a
potential threat. When I watched films that involved violence
against women, I’d become near hysterical. I agreed to
counselling but kept ‘forgetting’ my appointments a typical
avoidance tactic. I was in denial and going to therapy would
mean facing what had happened head-on.
Part of me also felt as though I didn’t deserve help.
After all, I had survived. I became increasingly angry about
the way women were blamed for the brutali- ty inflicted
against them. ‘What was your daughter doing out at that
time?’ a police officer had asked my mother, as though I
had been deliberately dan- gling my smooth, pale neck
in front of my attacker to tempt him. I experienced raging
furies, vicious tides of bitterness, which would whip up for
no apparent reason and engulf everyone around me.
Yet, somehow, I managed to graduate and find a
job. I moved out of my grandma’s and eventually ended up
in a relationship with my new flatmate, Tim. After the attack,
I’d had a couple of flings but, because of my fear of the Bad
Men Out To Get Me, I’d steered clear of relationships. Tim
was different. The kindest person I’d ever met, he withstood
my storms and comforted me with humour, music and wine.
But I knew that if I allowed my bitterness to fester, our
relationship would be ruined.
It was this that finally made me see a doctor. I
felt like I was clinging to my sanity, so a diagnosis of posttraumatic stress disorder from a clinical psychologist was a
relief. By combining anti-anxiety medication with intensive
cognitive behavioural therapy which aims to control negative
behaviours and emotions through rational thought I began
to heal. I won’t pretend it wa ́