What Is The Worst Thing That Can Happen?

Please note: this piece contains content that some readers may find upsetting.

Hope is standing at the side of the dance floor on your wedding day, barely more than a child yourself, watching your new husband say he’s fed-up spending so much time with you and walking off to meet friends who have just arrived. Standing there alone, heavily pregnant and looking around, realising you don’t really know anyone here.

Hope is the suspicion of him sleeping around being your paranoia.

Hope is when his best friend announces her new baby and she likes to tell people it was your husband who got her pregnant, then quickly going on about how he had gotten her drunk, and, therefore, anything she did afterwards with her own husband was his fault. Still, it’s hope that stops you from believing it. She’s your friend too after all.

It’s hope when you hear that they shared a bed on a night out when staying with other friends.

It’s hope when he’s telling you to dye your hair red when you’re a blonde, hope that it’s not due to the new girl at work, who he clearly likes, who has that same shade.

It’s hope that when he says he won’t hit you again, you believe it because you don’t want this to be your life. You don’t think you’re strong enough to survive the rage of his fists.

It’s hope that when he says he’ll get help with his anger that you believe him.

It’s hope that when he apologises, you believe him, because you want the man he was in the beginning to come back.

Hope is the fear that when the police arrive, they won’t believe you and instead send him home because home isn’t safe with him there. You don't want him back.

Hope is renting a new home and struggling to decorate it yourself. You want it to look nice, then in the following months, there’s water damage from the roof and boiler. The decorating and carpets are ruined.

Hope is writing a seven book fantasy series that’s never quite done, because you don’t believe in yourself enough to pursue publishing, but you end up falling back in love with writing and creating because it feels safe to do, spending time drawing, sketching and creating art again, something you once loved dearly.

It’s hope that makes you want to try dating, makes you put yourself out there and try to be around men again. You hope that someone new won’t hurt you the way that your husband did. He’s not the norm but the exception, right? You hope so because you can’t go through all that again. You hope to meet a decent man, one who knows what empathy is.

It’s hope that says ‘not all men’ as you fix your makeup and hair, off to meet someone for the first time, thinking please don’t break my heart, it’s already fragile.

Hope is bleeding heavily, miscarrying alone at Christmas, having to replace the mattress from waking up in puddles of blood and begging, praying not to lose the baby. You lose it anyway.

Hope is looking out at a jury, pleading that they believe you, even though statistics say they probably won’t.

Hope is staring at your husband in a mess of tears, a face blotchy red, forced to describe the worst things he did to you, looking to him for support, for empathy and finding nothing. He’s sitting back with his arms crossed, looking utterly bored. Knowing he doesn’t care hurts worst of all.

Hope is seeing the transcript from court printed online and wishing no one sees it, but everyone at work discusses it anyway. You go off sick after a few days, humiliated, handing in your notice some weeks later.

Hope is looking at the woman defending him and knowing she has the power to break you but hoping she doesn’t. With the words ‘I don’t believe you’, something inside shatters and it reaffirms what he always told you: ‘no one will believe you’. And when it really matters, they don’t.

It's hope waiting for a phone call with the verdict. You hope beyond all reason that it’s guilty because maybe then you’ll feel safe, knowing he’s not out there anymore. You hope that justice will be served and that all this additional trauma will be worthwhile. Then the phone rings and the polite young man says ‘he was found not guilty’.

Hope is telling someone you're dating that you want to be in a relationship with them and they laugh at you. Saying ‘I love you’ and they say ‘you’re so brave’.

Hope is falling in love with someone, feeling safe in his arms, taking in his natural scent and the soft sound of his breathing as he dozes in the summer heat of July. This is what you have waited your whole life for, only to find out that when he told you he was single he meant he had a girlfriend and was actively dating around, even when he told you that you were 'the only one'.

Hope is a year later still waiting for that man to turn up at your door all apologies as he explains his mistakes and all the tangible things he’s going to do to fix them, how he loves you too and he’s going to spend every day making sure you know it. Still wanting him, still loving him even though you know he’s no good for you.

Hoping and dreaming has earned me little more than being kicked while I was already down, but hope has also been the hand that’s helped me up when I’ve lost everything, including my own sanity and self. Because what if hope for love, friendship and happiness is a possibility? Stability and safety: what if those things are within my reach? Maybe I can be brave one last time? What’s the worst that can happen when the worst has already happened?

If you've been affected by this piece, please see our support page(this link will open in a new window) for help and advice.