LQ55AXC9zc- Rebecca Humphries October 8, 2018 With trembling hands, I hit publish, and the rest is history. How I had come to realise that his dismissal was, in fact, a controlling technique and how other women in similar positions had an ally in me. How he had dismissed my suspicions of foul play by branding me a ‘psycho’ - as he had done so before on many occasions when I had expressed hurt or concern. How the pictures had been taken on my birthday, when I was alone at home. I composed a tweet that filled in a few gaps. Best, then, to speak on my own terms, with my own voice a voice that I had hitherto allowed myself to believe was less important or relevant than someone else’s. I knew I was in the eye of the storm Dorothy inside the tornado. The media had been in touch all day, offering me money and front page spreads. So when the following afternoon at around 4pm, the Twitter apologies from my ex and his dance partner were released, the idea of going public with my own experience felt like nothing I couldn't handle. Each step felt like I was climbing the rung of a ladder, and, though I wasn’t sure where the ladder led, the fact that my feet were moving at all felt pleasantly surprising. Within 15 minutes we’d packed a suitcase, put Winston (my cat) in his carrier and got me out of there forever. The second I got home I called Claire, whose husband came straight over. 'Wow,' I remember thinking, as our driver sped off. Bright lights from every direction blinded me on route, the urgency of loud male voices and a sharp, intense shift in energy. Within five minutes, we were both in a car being surreptitiously whisked away under the cover of October darkness. My default response was, somewhat surprisingly, to be practical. Afterwards, in the smoking area, my boyfriend came up to me and said: ‘ The Sun have got pictures of me and Katya kissing’. I was at the BBC’s studios for the live recording of Strictly. But it wasn’t even a bit like I’d imagined. On 6th October, my worst nightmare became a reality. ‘The worst that could happen.’ I replied, taking a deep breath: ‘Is that he has an affair with his professional dance partner, and it’s all over the front pages for my friends and family to see. As a diehard Strictly fan, I wasn't naive to the fact that countless long-term relationships had (quite literally) been murdered on that dance-floor - something I was finding myself maniacally laughing off whenever relatives and friends joked about the so-called ‘ Strictly Curse’.īut I also failed to recognise the panic for what it was: mistrust. Everyone was excited for me, yet I felt panicked. An anxiety that was constantly swirling around my mind, no matter how much I tried to shut it up.Ī fortnight before, my boyfriend of five years had been asked to appear on my favourite TV show, Strictly Come Dancing. Somewhere between the open faced sandwiches and Schnapps on our city break, my friend Claire had sensed my anxiety. ‘What’s the worst that could possibly happen?’ - Copenhagen, August 2018.
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