A couple of days ago, I wrote an open letter to HarperCollins and why I won't be supporting them any more. It revolved around something one of their authors did. A criminal act which, hopefully, the person in question is now getting help for.
Let's talk about
stalking. Let's talk about how it can affect lives. Let's talk about
how it's not cute and funny.
As I mentioned before,
I was the victim of a stalker. He was an ex who'd decided that me
saying “No” to him wasn't enough. He was determined to follow me
and harass me until I changed my mind and said “Yes”. And I came
so close so many times just to get him to stop.
He called my family
constantly. He contacted them on Myspace (this happened pre-Facebook
and Twitter). He sent them text messages DEMANDING that they made me
get back with him.
I had to move. Twice.
And he still found me. He found out where I lived, what classes I was
taking, where I was working, where I shopped, where I went out, who
my friends were. I'd come out of class and find him standing around
and chatting to my friends. One of my workplaces called to tell me
he'd been in asking about me. Every place I worked at stood up for me
and barred him. Yet he still tried to get in.
He called me.
Constantly. I'd turn my phone off for lectures and, when I turned it
back on again, there were be ten, twenty, thirty missed calls. There
would be angry voicemails asking me why my phone was turned off. For
some reason, he didn't understand the meaning of going to university.
Didn't understand that I had to sit and concentrate and couldn't be
on call 24/7 for him. Apparently I was supposed to be available at
all times, even though I was 200 miles away.
He chased me along
deserted roads as I tried to escape him. I pushed and kicked and hit
and screamed. But he still kept on coming, grabbing at me and
demanding I didn't leave him. But I had left him. I'd left him
because I couldn't cope with his neediness and needed to get my head
down and study.
I called the police.
Oh, believe me, I called the police. One day I called them while he
was standing outside of my house and screaming at me. I held the
phone up for the police to hear. My voice was filled with the terror
of the hunted. But their response remained the same. “Sorry, ma'am,
we can't do anything until he does something to you”. “Does
something” basically meant they couldn't touch him until he hit,
raped, or, God forbid, killed me.
This was one of the
many reasons I turned to drink and drugs. They were a weapon to
obliterate what was happening around me. They made me forget about
him, and all that he was doing. To me, my three years at university
were a waste because I didn't really achieve anything. This was
before campuses and establishments took things like harassment of
students seriously (admittedly, my original college in the Midlands
dealt with it very well when one of the students followed me home. I
had the choice of what could happen to that student. My university,
however, failed me miserably). I dropped out at the beginning of the
third year and spent the next twelve month drifting around the area
before I finally made my way home. Even there, he didn't stop.
Once back home, he
found me again. It didn't matter that I was in the throes of going
through drug withdrawals. He started calling again. Started writing
letters. All the time he was begging me to return to him. This was
four years after I'd left him.
When I was clean and
sober, I had to move. Again. This time I had a secret weapon in the
form of my brothers. They saw my stalker one night. When he asked how
I was, one of them replied, “She's dead”. They, like myself, were
tired of the constant harassment. Tired of being dragged into the
drama that I'd unwittingly forced them to be a part of. And they'd
managed to free me when I couldn't free myself.
I never heard from him
again. But I still carry the scars. Whenever I'm in the local area,
I'm super wary of who's around me. If you've travelled anywhere with
me, you may notice that I get a little jumpy and nervous. I also get
quiet. Deathly quiet. I know he's not there but I can't help feeling
that there's someone, just waiting around the corner for me.
Stalking isn't funny.
It isn't something to joke about. And it's definitely not something
to brag about. It leaves scars. Not physical scars but mental ones.
And they're hard to break free from. It crushes a person's self
esteem and confidence. It makes them feel worthless and alone. It
traps them and makes them feel like there's no way out. People have
killed themselves because of stalkers and I'm only happy that I've
had people who've helped, and still help, me get over those
boundaries I've put around myself.
Many of those scars
still live within me. I've unconsciously made myself ugly so that I
don't attract attention. I dress in baggy clothes and rarely wear
make up. I don't have the confidence to get dressed up and look nice.
I still jump at shadows and unexpected noises. I still creep around
the streets, waiting for someone to jump out. I still doubt myself.
I'm still looking for the confidence I used to have.
If you have a stalker
please speak out. Email me. Call someone. Call the police. The
authorities are now admitting that this is a problem and they have
agencies in place to help you. They will help. Please don't live in
fear. There's a master list of phone numbers here:
You're not alone. And
we'll look after you. We promise.
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