This story, narrated by Amy, has a very different mood to most of mine, and I know possibly belongs in a different category. But the longer story has lived in this category and it seems inappropriate to change that.
And I felt it was a story, given Amy's past, that had to be told.
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In a way I knew it had to happen eventually.
After I'd settled in Australia, I did some research into the personality traits that drive someone like my previous abusive partner in the UK, Frank.
While my amateur research was not able to give a binding diagnosis, it was pretty clear to me he had a severe narcissistic personality disorder with psychopathic tendencies and a little bit of obsessive compulsive disorder too.
The self-entitlement, lack of empathy, need for self-aggrandisement and his inability to show any real intimacy were, to an extent, only the superficial elements of his NPD. The real depth of it was shown in his false reality. It was absolutely pointless contesting his version of events or circumstances, however ridiculous his version was or how much they looked like outright lies. To do so would only enrage him because, inevitably the ones I'm talking about went to his self-esteem; whether the events showed him in a positive or negative light.
And the only version of any event his mind could comprehend was the version that showed him in a positive light. What was spewing from his mouth weren't so much outright lies as delusional false realities.
When that is combined with his repetitive and persistent pattern of heartless and conscienceless theft, lies and willingness to inflict physical violence that seemed to know no limits, I was right to fear for my life when I fled.
But, more importantly to my future, it also told me Frank was very unlikely to ever let my escape go. He would see it as a slight on him and his entitlement that would need to be rectified, either by my punishment or by my return; with the latter requiring some punishment anyway.
If I was lucky and he found someone else to obsess about and control, then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be bothered with me. But of course then they would be at risk.
Absent that, I would be a lifetime itch he'd have to scratch at.
As for his OCD, that was in a slightly different category. While I was with him, it was of course the trigger for many acts of violence he committed on me; something I just didn't do well enough or get right enough according to his particular standards.
But in some areas I also recognised it as a weakness. It was something that could be employed as a distraction, especially in his sexual fetishes.
Ned has always admired my strength and fitness. That is partly because I enjoy exercise, enjoy exercising with Ned even more, and like my body better in that state.
But it has always been with an eye on an uncertainty that lay in my future. The possibility I'd have an encounter with Frank one day. The bag at the local gym took a terrible beating as I practiced punching and kicking it.
In a way, I had always been on my guard from the time I'd settled in Australia. Not in a way I was willing to let spoil my life as some sort of constant obsessive worry; just a sort of back of my mind alertness.
It didn't stop me making and posting videos about Ned, me and the rest of the Screw Girls and our adventures which I knew would eventually be found by Frank and pull at his tail. But it was why I stripped geo-location from everything and did a 180 degree horizontal rotation on any sailing footage that showed the coastline, to confuse which direction we were heading in and so make it harder for him to track me down.
But you can't just disappear. Even as my professional life progressed and it became necessary to be on Linked In and give speeches, it became impossible to stay undercover.
I'd thought about what any ambush by Frank would look like. Guns are not easily available in Australia -- even less so by a foreign tourist. So it was obvious his weapons would be his male strength, fists and knives. Which meant he'd have to find me alone. Which meant he'd need to conduct surveillance first.
The male strength and fists I could at least partly overcome with my own training. Knives were harder because there was a fair chance he'd catch me when I least expected it. But I also knew Frank had one enormously big weakness; letting his brain be dominated by his penis. It always occurred to me that my tendency to dress in sexually attractive clothing may well be a good defence from being surprised and stabbed from behind before I had any chance to defend myself. It was difficult to believe he wouldn't want one last access to my living body.
Frank had captured me -- because that's the most appropriate description of what it was like -- when I was a young, innocent and naive eighteen year old.
If I was as cute and beautiful as Ned says I am, I certainly hadn't grown aware of it. I was shy and insecure around men and poorly educated as to their sexual ways.
Frank had found it easy to charm the immature me with his manner and attract me with his idealised male physique. He was tall and well-built with a sculptured face. Just the sort of male that a young girl with a Jane Austin view of gender relations might fall for. And I did.
I went through the whole process that a girl who falls for a man like Frank goes through.
By imperceptible steps you get isolated from your friends and family and your life starts to get controlled by him. In small ways at first, and then eventually in every detail.
Frank's control of me had quickly become comprehensive.
But a lot was focused on three particular things.
I was only allowed to go out without him to go to work. And I was expected to come directly home the moment work finished. No socialising with work colleges.
I wasn't allowed any free access to money, even though I was the senior breadwinner for the family. My pay went into an account that Frank tightly controlled.
The final one was how I presented myself and dressed.
Although he didn't put it like that and I didn't really realise what he was doing, he quickly trained me to only go out dressed in frumpy, figure hiding clothes with my long hair in an unattractive bun.
But the minute I got home, I was required to change out of my 'good' work clothes (the 'good' part being his justification for me taking them off to keep them looked after) and free my hair from the bun to 'let it breathe'.
In summer months, when it was warm (by English standards anyway), I'd be encouraged to just strip down to my underwear. Underwear carefully, almost obsessively, chosen by him. In cooler weather, it would be a pair of spray on tight leggings in a silvery or golden sheen colour with a sort of g string pantie underneath and a very tight fitting long sleeved top.
A necessary part of this process is that your abusive partner gaslights you. Everything he's encouraging you to do has a seemingly good reason unrelated to his real purpose. You don't really recognise he's deliberately dressing you unattractively when you're out, in any case he's constantly telling you how ugly you are, and nor do you recognise he's objectified you for his visual pleasure the minute you've walked in the door.
The bottom line is, if you are cut off from other sources of social engagement and constantly bombarded with the same message, whether that's how ugly you are or how things are being done for your benefit, you end up being convinced of the truth of it.
As a young girl, I wasn't really clued on what attracted men. I had a loose idea they liked breasts and, before Frank gaslighted me, thought mine pretty good, but beyond that I was ripe for brainwashing.
As crazy as it seems in retrospect, it was only with Ned and my better understanding of men's desires I could look back and understand Frank's.
The thing was, Frank was not as much of a breast man as most men are. Yes, he liked cleavage displays. But unlike Ned, who loves to play with them and suck my nipples, Frank showed scant regard for tactile interaction with them. He was more a butt and legs man. Well, and a crotch man too. Very much a crotch man.
I just had no idea of how sexually attractive a nicely proportioned but very prominent mons bulge could be to men until Ned alerted me to it. Indeed, I hadn't even noticed how different mine was from what I might call an average mons. But Frank was clearly as obsessed with mine as Ned is.
Looking back, in my initial meetings with Frank, I was either wearing tight jeans or leggings; both of which adequately displayed what lay beneath, at least enough to attract his interest over and above whatever other attractive features I had.
The panties and bra-lets he made me wear in the warmer months were tiny, tightly fitted and of a stretch silky texture, all of which I can see now pandered to his both visual and tactile desires. And the leggings were the same.
