The highly publicised defemination trial between Johnny Depp and Amber Heard has been grabbing headlines across the globe. Even after the jury found that Amber Heard did publish the infamous op-ed about Depp and did so with malice and false accounts, certain publications are still stating that Depp was the instigator and not Heard. Some have even gone as far to say that the verdict is damaging for women everywhere who are victims of Domestic Violence.
I completely disagree – believing that the verdict is actually a win for any victim of emotional abuse. A win for those who have been victims of gas-lighting and controlling behaviour. For those who have been living in silence with the emotional control of those who are supposed to love them unconditionally. And that women can be perpetrators.
I’ve seen first-hand domestic violence – lived through it as a child. I’ve been abused physically, emotionally and sexually. I’ve been an adult who has been terrified of the phone ringing in case it’s the woman ringing to verbally abuse me all over again. I was that kid who swore I would never hit my own kids when I had them and that I would listen to them, believe them and protect them from the human monsters in the world.
Growing up, I wasn’t a particularly happy child. I was bullied at primary school because, apparently, I was ‘posh’ and ‘too clever’. I mean, I lived in an incredibly rough village in the far reaches of South Manchester, on the most rough council estate. I wasn’t exactly posh. I was clever, though. Or at least, quite clever for the demographic. By the time I was eleven, and high school was calling, the decision was made that I’d go to one in a neighbouring village in Cheshire. My dad had got a job at the high school in my village as the assistant caretaker, and my parents were worried that I’d get bullied even more by association. It was a whole new world, and suddenly I went from being the ‘posh’ girl in primary school to the ‘rough’ girl in high school.
Considering the school was less than five miles away from my house, it was quite the revelation.
Although the first few years of high school was undoubtably horrible for me – the final few (including sixth form) were amazing. I’d found friends who would end up being the god-parents to my children – who would be there for me when I needed them. And, unfortunately, that was more often than I’d ever wanted it to be. They showed me what family really was. Not the poor quality facsimile I had.
I used to go to my friends homes on a Friday after school, and I remember being confused and discombobulated when they were excited about their dad getting home from work. Or when their mum would compliment them for looking pretty. Or when they announced their pride for getting good grades. It baffled me. I’d always been bought up to fear my father’s return home from work – he was an alcoholic, and would often become violent when drunk. My mother was cruel and quite vindictive with her words. She’d admonish me if I expressed that I’d thought I looked pretty telling me ‘well, haven’t you got a big head.’ My father used to say ‘ugh, I can see your face now,’ whenever I got a haircut – not sometimes, every. Single. Time. I began to believe that I was hideous looking, and that if I thought I looked nice on the outside, I must be ugly on the inside because that was what proud, vain people were. So when my friends parents would compliment me, I’d brush it off – completely mortified. I would hide in pictures my friends took, believing no one needed to see my ugly face. Similarly, if I had done well at school, they’d mock me – telling me I was becoming ‘too big for your boots’. I came to dread parents evenings, knowing that whichever way my report went, I’d get some form of bashing. Either, ‘you think you’re so clever, bully for you. But we know better because we’re older and your parents.’ Or, if it wasn’t great; ‘what’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you the cleverest girl in school like you were in Primary?’ It was exhausting. Before long, I began to hide the school reports and throw any letters home about any upcoming meetings in the bin on my way home. Again, though, my friends parents reactions to their child’s achievements in school were contradictory to mine. They were praised, whether they’d done awfully in most subjects or brilliantly in one. ‘As long as you’re doing your best, that’s all we care about,’ they’d say. I’d stand to one side, my mouth agape at the revelation that maybe something wasn’t quite right at home.
It wasn’t until my A-Levels when my dad finally left the family home. He’d beaten both me and my mother one night, causing me to ring the police. My friends supported me through it, offering me a sanctuary of sorts, at their homes while the dust settled. It took a lot longer for me to recognise that my mother, while not as physically violent, was almost as bad.
As I left home, went to university and met the love of my life, I was still a diligent daughter. I’d call my mother every day and try to travel over to see her regularly. Eventually, she moved across the country to live in the same town I’d settled in, and around a year later, just before my wedding day, I found out I was pregnant. I was overjoyed, as I had a condition called Endometriosis, which doctors had warned could render me infertile. I found out on father’s day, and my husband to be and I jumped in the car to tell our parents the news. While his parents were happy and said all the right things in the right order, my mothers reaction was somewhat different. ‘Oh,’ she’d said. ‘I don’t think you’re made for motherhood.’ Why, thank you, mum. Just what I wanted to hear.
Before that happy announcement, when I was still a student, I’d gone home for the summer. It was my first year being away from home, and I’d realised a few things. My father wasn’t only physically violent with me – he was… other things. When I tried telling my mother, she’d told me to ‘shut up, because I’m watching Emmerdale.’ I had to actually getup, turn the TV off (and face a barrage of verbal abuse) before I was able to tell her. When I finally got the words out of my mouth, she told me how awful she felt. How much this hurt her. How her life as she knew it was over because it was all her fault. No words of comfort for her teenage daughter who’d just spilled her guts out. No words to help with the trauma. Not even a hug. Somehow, my abuse had turned into her trauma and suddenly became all about her.
Anyway, back to being an adult. My wedding day was a truly beautiful day. I got my dream wedding dress, and despite finding out I was pregnant a couple of months before the big day, it still fitted me. My hair was long and tamed into flowing curls. My husband was perfect. My friends came from all around the country. Of course, my mother still attempted to make it about her – but honestly, I was just so happy that I didn’t really care. Not even when she tried making jibes about my belly or the weird markings which were showing on my neck.
The following day, instead of allowing me and my husband to rest and recover, she insisted that we had a day out with her and my brother. We were both exhausted as we’d not slept the night before, retelling each other the best bits about the day and marvelling at the outpouring of love we’d had. I’d wanted to spend the day packing for the honeymoon and then seeing the friends who’d travelled for the wedding – but no. Our wishes were not considered.
That would turn out to be the case over the next years.
After my daughter was born, of course my mother insisted that she be the first one to visit. She even got to meet my daughter before I did properly (she was in NICU while I was recovering from a traumatic C-Section). There’s something strange about someone putting themselves above a mother’s right to see her baby first. And how she LOVED it. She also harassed the nurses to give HER pictures of my daughter before me. Not going to lie, here – it sucked.
It became the norm that she’d often insert herself into anything my new little, perfect family wanted to do. She’d also manage to plant doubts into my head about my husband. She’d sneer at him, despite the fact that he would run himself ragged for her. She would volunteer him (without asking him) to do jobs at her local community centre. We would have to take her shopping on our days off from work (once my maternity leave had ended). We would have to revolve our lives around her, despite the fact that we both worked full time and had a baby to care for. She would never venture over to us, we’d always have to go to her. It was becoming emotionally draining.
Then, two years and a day after we got married, I found out I was pregnant again. When I told her, she once again told me that I would not cope with two kids, as I was barely coping with one. I began to doubt my parenting ability. Was I a bad mother for holding down a full time job? Was it wrong of me to place my daughter in nursery while I was working? Was it really my fault that my daughter was born prematurely? I was constantly second guessing myself, which was, being honest, the norm. I didn’t realise that what was happening wasn’t right. It was just the way things were.
As my beautiful family grew, my self confidence plummeted. Who am I kidding? I was never exactly confident to begin with. I was emotionally stunted, constantly seeking the approval of my mother. When I was seven and a half months pregnant with my oldest, she moved house. I mean, that’s fine, of course. But instead of asking someone who wasn’t heavily pregnant and hormonal to help, she insisted that me and my husband did all the moving. While she sat down and complained the entire time, and I beat myself up for not being a better daughter.
After my son was born, my husband had to return to work immediately – he was on a temporary contract which didn’t include paternity leave. My mother said she would come to help with the baby during the day, and as I was beyond exhausted, I happily accepted. The midwife had popped round for a quick check up, and in front of my mother and a friend, said that I needed rest and really should be going to bed after she’d gone. Within thirty seconds of the midwife leaving, mother dearest announced ‘well, I’m knackered. I think I might go and have a nap in your bed.’ My friend stared at her, mouth agape in astonishment and disbelief. She was there to HELP ME and to let me rest and yet, less than a minute after being given medical advice to rest, she decided she was in more need of a rest. Before that point, she had done nothing but sit on her backside, complaining. She even refused to make herself a brew – which considering I lived in a flat with an open plan living area at the time – was somewhat galling. Luckily, my friend offered to take me and the two small children to her flat and let me rest there.
Just stop to think about that. I had a toddler, a new born baby and a fully grown woman demanding my attention. And guess who was determined to have most of the attention. The fully grown woman. She complained if I put these two completely dependent children above her. It’s not normal and it was becoming increasingly unhealthy for me, my husband and my children. She would criticise my appearance – telling me that I was too fat (a week after giving birth), that when I wore makeup I looked like a prostitute.
It wasn’t just criticising my appearance and my capabilities as a parent that she excelled at. She was amazing at starting arguments. Especially just before a holiday. She would, for want of a better word, throw a tantrum that we were not taking her with us. Despite the fact that it was a camping holiday and she struggled with mobility. Or that she wouldn’t be paying a penny towards it; not even meals or day trips. And it was always our fault for not inviting her. Or, we’d purposely booked a holiday that she wouldn’t be able to go on and for that, we were the most unthoughtful, selfish people on the planet. Of course, whenever she went on holiday, we had to take her to the airport, pick her up again and clean her flat while she was away.
The arguments were always ridiculous. She would blow out and actually ring my husbands parents to scream and shout at them – even if they had nothing at all to do with the argument. She would threaten to ring the police and tell them I was abusing her. She would say the kids were being neglected. She would throw anything we’d bought her as gifts and demand we returned anything she’d gifted to us. And it was always just before we went on a holiday.
While we were away, she’d lose her mind if I didn’t call her every day. It didn’t matter if we were in the middle of a field in Cornwall, where no mobile signal exists – she would demand that she had at least one phone call a day. If I didn’t, I would suffer the consequences when I got home. She’d sulk, pout and refuse to speak to me for several days.
In my mid thirties, my endometriosis became really bad. I’d had the Mirena Coil fitted, but was still bleeding on a daily basis. It was eventually decided that a hysterectomy was the only way to go. It was booked for first thing on a Friday morning at the end of March. Naturally, the night before the surgery, she decided to have another strop. My daughter struggled to sleep unless she had a DVD on, needing the white noise in the background. With my husband working on an evening shift, it had been agreed that mother would stay the night to help get the children ready for school the next morning, as I would have already been in theatre. So, what does the grown woman do when the small child is struggling to sleep? That’s right. Shout at her and threaten me that she’s going home, therefore leaving me with no childcare the next morning when I needed it the most. It took me begging her to not leave, and asking my small daughter to apologise to the grown woman about not being able to sleep. It was hideous.
After, when I was recovering at home, things did not get better. A week after surgery, she was insistent that I took her shopping as usual. Never mind that I was still falling asleep at the drop of the hat, hadn’t been able to go to the toilet and had barely left the bed since I’d got home. She told me that she wasn’t going to help with childcare because I didn’t help her when she had her hysterectomy. I was eighteen-months old. Unable to help her. Absolutely unable to help her.
It was Christmas that year that everything blew up. She came over on Christmas day, and as usual just sat there and watched the TV. She didn’t help with the food – indeed, she complained about the food. It was a family tradition that we watched Dr Who, and the kids were excited about it. Mother complained. She wanted to watch her soaps. So, we recorded Dr Who, and let her watch her soaps. As we got ready to watch it after her programmes had finished, she complained again. She wanted to watch a video on her laptop. I asked if she would put in ear phones, and all hell broke loose.
It was too much. She started screaming at the kids, calling them cruel names, which I won’t repeat. She screamed at me; telling me I was a hypochondriac because I was currently awaiting emergency surgery to remove my ovaries. She screamed at my husband, calling him more unspeakable names. All because she wasn’t the centre of attention on Christmas Day, and because the children were. Even though she was in their house. She began to throw things, narrowly missing the kids. And I finally snapped. I wanted no more of it. I threw her out of the house and would have happily made her get and pay for a taxi. My husband, however, the saint he is, took her home. He suggested that she get professional help, and guess what? Instead of thanking him for driving her home on Christmas Day after she’d verbally abused him in his own home, she threatened him. She told him she would report him to his work place and ensure he was sacked because he was committing elderly abuse.
I mean, what?
The next week flew by with more abuse from her. She would leave poisonous voice mails, she would write aggressive text messages. She threatened to kill herself. We had to warn my in-laws that she was on a rampage so that they could ready themselves against her. She would call the kids more and more unkind names. I’d had nothing more to give. Not only was I jumping and cringing whenever the phone rang, but I was paranoid about my husband getting fired because of her vindictiveness. My surgery was upcoming, and I was becoming more and more ill with stress and worry.
The day of my surgery rolled on by. I’d changed my mobile number and landline number because of her constant calling. As I was waking up in recovery, a nurse troops into the room and says I’ve got a phone call from my mum. Thinking it was my mother in law, I took the call, only to hear the worst voice in the world. She told me off for not telling her about the surgery and that she hated me. That I was selfish for not thinking about her. I hung up and threw up.
That was the last time I actually spoke to her. But not the last contact.
Over the years she would: Ask a stranger to message me to tell me that my mother was seriously ill in the hospital (I rang the purported ward, and she wasn’t). Send the police to my house in the middle of the night telling them I’d threatened her. Ring my in-laws and threaten them. Send a stranger to my house with money (I turned them away). Tell people that I had beaten her up and scratch her own arms as evidence – I hadn’t seen her for months at this point. Pretend my oldest brother was dead, causing my sister and I to call the police to find out if this was true. Which ended up wasting police time, upsetting my brother’s ex and causing my husband to have to have time off work to help with the fall out. Send letters every six months or so, stating how lonely she is– there would never be any mention of missing us or the kids, or apologies for her behaviour. Just about her feelings of loneliness and how it was all my fault. Sent a box of pictures of the kids a couple of weeks before Christmas.
This list is not exhaustive.
In the years since I threw her out of my house that Christmas Day, I’ve never been better emotionally. I don’t question myself over every decision. I’m much more confident in myself. I know that I was abused mentally, for my whole life – gas-lighted into believing myself to be stupid, useless, fat and ugly. To always be at fault. It’s been a revelation that I’ve never been any of those things. I’m finally able to have some self confidence. And why? Because she’s not in my life anymore. I’m not scared of the phone ringing, of a knock on the door. I’m in control of my own life, not having to jump when she insists on it – even when I’m recovering from major surgery.
More importantly, the kids are free of her. They’re not having to hear the vile names she called them, or hear her disparaging comments about their appearance or intelligence. They’re growing into kind, polite, clever and brilliant young adults. And, I’ve never had to hit them or call them names to do so. Have I shouted at them? Sure. But not constantly, and never calling them names.
So, why is this pertinent to the Johnny Depp/Amber Heard case? Because it shows that women can be narcistic, attention seeking abusers. That they can be vile, spiteful and downright evil at times. That they can twist the truth to their own ends and use coercive control over those they’re supposed to love. It’s clear that women can be the instigators and then pretend to be the victim.
I’ve been the woman on the receiving end of a narcissistic abuser, and believe me when I say it’s possible to recognise another abuser. Call it survivors instinct. It’s possible to sense another victim, trying to hide behind humour when they’re re-living their painful memories. I’ve seen my abuser fake cry when she’s recounting an event that never happened, or at the very best, embellishing real events that she was the instigator. I’ve been the person on the receiving end of vitriol and spite for no other reason than I was her daughter. Her words; ‘I can do what I want to you, I gave birth to you. I own you,” when I was in my mid-thirties.
So, no. The jury finding Johnny Depp to be the victim in this case is not a step back for women victims of Domestic Violence and Abuse. It’s a step back for the perpetrators of false claims of abuse. If anything, Amber Heard’s constant lies, ever changing and escalated claims are more harmful to true victims of DV. She has single-handedly made it less likely for women to be believed if they come forward. Because, let’s remember, that no criminal charges were ever bought against Depp. Even police officers testified in court that there were no bruises on Heard when they were called to the penthouses. You could argue that Depp never bought charges against her, either, but remember, she’d cut his finger off. She’d told him (in a recording) that she would accuse him of DV if he ever left her – and as she was a woman – she’d be believed over him. ‘Tell the world, Johnny. Tell the world, that I, Johnny Depp – a man – I too am a victim of Domestic Violence. And see who the judge and jury believe.’
It took him over six years, but he did it, and the jury believed him. Not that that’s good enough, nor enough evidence, for the mass media.
So, what does that have to do with me? Funnily enough, Johnny was going through the worst of this abuse at the same time I was. He said he’d had enough at the same time I did. And, my mother taunted me the same way Amber taunted him. She’d say that no one would ever believe that a sweet, little old lady would ever hurt her daughter, who she doted on. He was gas-lighted into believing that all the names and abuse was his fault. So was I.
Abuse victims can come in all shapes, sizes and genders. So can abusers. It’s time the world caught up to that.
Comments