The Day I Attempted Suicide, and the Man Who Was Supposed to Love Me Left Me Without Help
Content warning: This post discusses domestic abuse, coercive control, a suicide attempt and its aftermath. Support information is included at the end.
There are parts of my story that are incredibly difficult to share. Things I have carried with me for years and, even now, struggle to comprehend. This is one of them.
I want to talk about the day I attempted to take my own life. Not because I want sympathy or want to shock anyone, but because I want people to understand the distress I was experiencing and how devastating it was to feel so little concern from the person who was supposed to love me.
I didn't want the life I had built with my daughter to end. I desperately wanted the suffering to stop.
At that moment, I could no longer see a way out. Today, I know I deserved help, compassion and a chance to find a different future.
The Day Everything Became Too Much
We had just returned home from a family wedding. What should have been a happy occasion had turned into another night of accusations, jealousy, humiliation and fear.
I will share the full story of that wedding in another post. For now, what you need to know is that I had been awake all night after being trapped in a bathroom and accused of cheating with one of his friends. I was emotionally and physically exhausted.
When we arrived home, the shouting started again. I was called a liar and a cheat. Once again, I was expected to defend myself against accusations that weren't true.
I was terrified of him. I had told him countless times that his shouting frightened me, but his response was usually the same: "Give over." Sometimes he would explain that shouting was what he had grown up around, as though that meant I should accept it.
If I asked him to stop, I was accused of suppressing him. He wasn't being aggressive, apparently. He was just "passionate".
But there is a difference between passion and intimidation. I was living in fear.
My Daughter Needed to Leave
The shouting became so unbearable that my daughter called my mum and asked her to collect her. She couldn't take it anymore.
Before this relationship, my daughter and I had a peaceful, happy home. We didn't live with constant shouting or arguments. Now she was asking to leave her own home because she couldn't bear what was happening inside it.
I felt devastated, ashamed that this had become our life and completely helpless. I had spent so long trying to manage his moods, prevent arguments, defend myself and keep the peace that I had lost almost every part of myself.
I didn't know what to do anymore.
I Needed Urgent Help
After my daughter left, I reached a point of complete despair and took an overdose. He was there and could see what was happening, but he didn't intervene. At some point, he left the house to return a hire car, leaving me alone.
I became seriously unwell and drifted in and out of consciousness. I was frightened and unable to move or respond properly.
I remember wanting the shouting, the accusations, the fear and the constant turmoil inside my head to stop.
What I needed was urgent medical help. But no ambulance was called.
The Memories I Still Carry
My memories of the following hours are fragmented. I remember occasionally sensing him beside me. I could hear him eating, but I couldn't open my eyes properly or respond.
I also remember him trying to transfer money from my bank account to his. He needed access to my phone, but I was so unwell that I couldn't make my hands function properly. I remember him becoming angry with me again.
Even in that condition, I could still hear his anger. I cannot explain how devastating that is to remember. I was at the lowest point of my life, physically incapacitated, frightened and unable to protect myself. Still, the anger hadn't stopped.
I was not taken to hospital. It was a long time before I began to feel anything close to normal, and at the time I didn't understand how seriously my health might have been affected.
Somehow, I Was Still Expected to Apologise
When I began recovering, there was no meaningful conversation about why I had reached such a desperate point. Instead, I was told I needed to make things up to him.
He accused me of leading his friend on at the wedding and blamed me for throwing a drink over him. What he failed to acknowledge was that I had thrown the drink because I felt cornered and was trying to get him away from me.
His friend had messaged me afterwards to check that I was okay. I still have those messages. He had witnessed the way I was being treated and expressed concern. He also described troubling behaviour he had witnessed when they lived together, including jealousy, aggression and difficulty accepting responsibility.
Yet I was still being portrayed as the person who had done something wrong.
I had attempted suicide, been left without medical assistance and was now being told I owed him an apology.
"Don't Tell Anyone"
He told me not to tell anyone about the overdose. It was nobody else's business, he said. People would judge our relationship.
I was still living in that environment and frightened of the consequences of upsetting him, so I kept quiet. I have since learned that he had told his friend about the overdose at the time. Yet even after that conversation, I still received no medical help.
That is something I continue to struggle to understand. I was expected to protect the image of our relationship while privately dealing with what had happened. For a long time, I did exactly that.
The Effects on My Health
In the months that followed, I didn't feel right. I had pains in my body and felt unwell, exhausted and unlike myself. I was told it was probably our mattress.
At one point, I wondered whether I might be experiencing perimenopause. That suggestion was quickly used as another explanation for my emotional state and behaviour. There always seemed to be another explanation, anything except the environment I was living in.
Eventually, I became so unwell that I sought medical help. I was told my liver was failing.
During my appointment, a nurse asked me questions about my relationship at home. I disclosed some of the abuse, although I played it down. By then, minimising what was happening had become second nature.
I also told her about my suicide attempt. The medical professionals believed the overdose was the most likely explanation for the damage to my liver. Months after that day, I was still living with its physical consequences.
The Caring Image Other People Saw
Once I was visibly unwell, something changed. He began presenting himself as the caring, attentive boyfriend, bringing me food and cups of tea.
But he also wanted photographs taken of those gestures and encouraged me to post them on social media so people could see how well he was looking after me.
To anyone watching from the outside, it might have looked loving. But I knew what had happened behind closed doors, when I had needed help most.
I also knew that if I posted the photographs and made him feel appreciated, there was less chance of another argument. So I went along with it. Not because everything was okay, but because keeping him happy had become part of how I survived.
People saw photographs of a caring boyfriend. They didn't see the frightened woman who had learned to do whatever was necessary to keep the peace.
The Conversation I Will Never Forget
Towards the end of our relationship, I began recording incidents and conversations as part of documenting what I was experiencing, following professional advice.
During one of those conversations, I asked why he had left me without medical help after the overdose. His response was: "Because you were texting my mate."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I asked whether that meant leaving me without help had been a punishment. He denied that interpretation, but I had heard his explanation and recorded it.
When I challenged him about the seriousness of what had happened, he dismissed my concerns again: "Give over." He also minimised the danger of the overdose, despite the serious health consequences I had experienced.
To this day, I still have that recording. It cannot tell me everything he was thinking, but it preserves what he said when I asked why he hadn't helped me. Those words have stayed with me.
The Suffering People Don't See
When someone reaches the point of attempting suicide, you cannot always see the suffering that came before it. You don't see the arguments behind closed doors, the constant criticism, the humiliation or the fear of someone coming home.
You don't see the strain on relationships with family and friends, the exhaustion of trying to keep another person calm or the gradual loss of confidence and sense of self.
For me, that distress became overwhelming. I could no longer see a way out.
I am not sharing this because everyone experiencing domestic abuse will feel the way I did. I am sharing it because I want people to understand how deeply emotional abuse affected my mental and physical health.
Most importantly, I want anyone who recognises themselves in my story to know that they deserve support long before they reach the point I did.
Survival Was Only the Beginning
For a long time, I carried shame about my suicide attempt. I wondered how my life had reached that point and how I had become someone who felt so hopeless.
But I am beginning to understand something important. I had been living in an environment that caused me enormous distress. I was frightened, exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed.
I needed compassion, protection and professional help. I did not need another accusation, to be told to "give over" or to be made responsible for somebody else's behaviour.
I cannot change what happened or erase the memories. But I can stop pretending it didn't happen. I can tell my story and rebuild a life in which peace is no longer something I have to beg for.
I survived a day when I couldn't see a future for myself. Today, I am working towards a future that belongs to me.
A future where my home feels safe, where my daughter doesn't have to listen to shouting and where love doesn't come with fear. A future where I never again have to make myself smaller just to keep somebody else happy.
That is why I created ReBecoming Her. Sometimes healing isn't about becoming a different person. It's about finding your way back to the woman you were before survival became your entire existence.
I am still finding my way back to her.
With love,
ReBecoming Her
Heal ♡ Grow ♡ Transform
Where to Find Support
If you are experiencing domestic abuse, you do not have to wait until things become unbearable before asking for help.
You can find support resources and links to organisations that can help in the Get Support section of my website. You don't have to navigate this alone.