TW: Domestic Abuse

A long time ago (nine years, in fact), I was strong, energetic and capable. I was always active. 

Five days a week I taught at a nearby university. Three times a week, I scaled walls at an indoor climbing gym. Twice a day, I walked my three large dogs. On the weekends, I repaired the house and maintained the yard, going to performances at the Cultural Centre at night. 

Like many casual academics, my work was tenuous, based on semester-long contracts. Like many others, I found immense joy in guiding and supporting my students. I poured enormous amounts of intellectual and creative energy into designing and producing teaching and learning materials. I saw many casuals move away into often unrelated full-time positions over the years. Yet I stayed, justifying this decision as much to myself as to others, based on the amount of holidays (that is, weeks without pay) I got. 

‘Actually,’ I’d say with conviction, ‘all those weeks without work mean more free time to travel.’ 

The precariousness of casual work, combined with intense competition for contracts, however, led me to accept multiple simultaneous positions. Declining a role meant it would go to someone else, potentially removing me from future opportunities. Consequently, many semesters I was involved in a combination of teacher training, teaching on university pathway programs, providing learning support and working as a research assistant. Although I also occasionally taught at other institutions at night and on weekends, I maintained almost complete employment consistency at the one university for 14 years. 

I had made several starts into doctorates in the past. However, living with domestic abuse meant my dreams were rarely realised. In my late thirties, I tried to free myself from my restrictive and destructive domestic life, only to become trapped in a hell-like situation that seemed never to end. I think of those long years, when I lived in fear for my life, as ‘the terrible years’. Eventually, they were past; but the cost to my health, finances, and sense of well-being were great. One loss I had been too overwhelmed to notice before, was that of my personal writing practice. 

Throughout my life, regardless of my situation, I had always turned to my personal writing practice as trusted friend, non-judgemental listener, and source of solace. It was my only form of true self-expression. In that writing space, I could be myself and still be safe. Yet the ongoing trauma of those terrible years, the court appearances, the muting of my voice, the denial of my truth, had been too much: I had lost my ability to write for myself in this very meaningful way. I describe it as ‘trauma-induced creative writing block’. The desire to recover my personal writing voice was the genesis of an idea for pursuing a PhD in a different discipline: a Doctor of Creative Arts. With this new venture, I started to imagine a different, brighter academic career.

The beginning of the end

In 2016, I presented the early stages of my doctoral research at a conference in London. It was there I caught the worst flu I had ever experienced. While I recovered enough to hike Norway’s famous Preikestolen ten days later, something fundamental in my body and brain had changed. 

My symptoms began a few weeks after returning to Australia. They were like nothing I had ever experienced. At first, I could no longer understand what my students were saying. Their words drifted upwards in a colourful jumble. I tried desperately to focus, to capture them, but they floated out of reach. The classroom’s computer and audiovisual equipment became incomprehensible, as if I’d never used them before. And for the first time in my life, I felt the need to sit down when teaching. In front of a room of concerned people, I tried to sit on a stool, only to slip off. 

My symptoms increased daily.  The group of people I had climbed with at the gym for years, had celebrated special occasions with, shared personal stories with – the people I called my friends – abandoned me. Who could blame them, I thought. I was sick, no longer useful or fun to be with. Not having close friendships was a legacy of a lifetime of domestic abuse. Sadly, I also received no support from my place of work. I was very much on my own.

Within a few months, I became almost completely incapacitated. My doctor, who could find no cause, told me it was age-related decline. Age-related decline? I was only 48! I stayed in various versions of incapacitation for the next five years.

And then, fortune brought me a spark of hope in the recommendation of a new doctor at a nearby medical practice. So young, so bright, so kind. I was finally taken seriously and referred to a neuroimmunologist who told me I just needed to rest and recover my fitness. But my condition continued to deteriorate. On my second visit to the neuroimmunologist, 18 months later, I was visibly worse. I was a weak, shrunken woman who could not hold herself upright and could not stop crying. I didn’t have the energy to stop the tears. 

The neuroimmunologist was shocked. He reviewed my brain scans; he looked at me with compassion. But he couldn’t help me. I read his prognosis written simply in a few lines to my doctor: my condition would continue to degenerate; my life would be shortened. I had untreatable post-viral syndrome. With no support network, no income, and unable to care for myself, I accepted the necessity of relocating to an old-age care facility. This would be the end of my story. In the few moments of each day that I was lucid, I felt complete despair. Had I the energy, I would have railed at the world.

Yet there was something in me that remained strong: an innate will to survive.

I focused my limited energy on seeking a way forward, a means of regaining my independence. I returned to my doctor again and again. We found a ‘brain clinic’ for geriatrics at the women’s hospital. I begged her to refer me, despite my deep shame at wanting assistance designed for people twice my age.

And she did. Because of her, I was eventually accepted into a complete rehabilitation program. There was to be physical and occupational therapy, and neuropsychology. I finally got what I needed ― support ― the one key factor missing from my life during this entire period.

My goals for the program were small: to gain enough strength to hold myself upright. To regain dexterity in my hands so I could use cutlery and hold a pencil. To be able to have a conversation for a few minutes without passing out from exhaustion. To recover enough cognitive ability to live independently. To not die prematurely in a care-facility. 

My research matters

Smouldering beneath my desire to regain physical and cognitive capacity was my dream of completing my doctoral thesis. Not for the title of Dr, for there were no longer any career aspirations, but out of a deep belief that my research mattered.

It was an autoethnographic work, the thesis consisting of a creative artefact (a book) and an exegesis (the scholarly discussion), on regaining voice and agency through writing about domestic abuse. I wrote the book for a general audience in the hope that, when shared, it may lend strength to others who had also felt powerless. I had already completed the research component, the creative artefact, and a draft exegesis.  

Several months into my rehabilitation, the end of my latest academic leave of absence loomed. The kindly neuropsychologist overseeing my rehabilitation suggested I withdraw my candidature. She saw that I had extremely poor working memory and limited small motor function; that I was often barely able to speak. She suggested freeing myself of this unnecessary burden. 

A burden, yes, but one that gave me purpose.

The thought of withdrawing filled me with a deep sense of loss. I couldn’t bear more loss. I resolved to not give up.

With the permission of my supervisor, I attempted to submit the simple, online application for a further leave of absence. It took several attempts, over two weeks. 

‘See,’ the critical part of me said. ‘You can’t even do this! How do you expect to complete your thesis?’

Nothing like a naysayer to fuel my determination.

I subsequently gained a further year to make progress on my health before I needed to consider withdrawing.

A year later, I was discharged from the rehabilitation program. I may have been far from recovered, yet I was well on my way to meeting my goals. I could walk upright for a few minutes, sit upright (as long as my legs were raised), and I was slowly regaining dexterity in my hands. 

I was, once again, on my own.

Thesis writing as purpose

I turned to my research writing as solace, my way of drawing meaning into my reduced life. I proposed to my supervisor that I commit to working for ten minutes a day on my thesis. Almost two years of rehabilitation had shown me that tiny, yet consistent, actions could lead to great progress. I was buoyed by his encouragement. He’s a prolific writer despite his full-time job, extra responsibilities, and family commitments. He knows the cumulative benefits of writing a little, often. 

I noted, also, an obvious benefit of my illness; that I had been ejected from the additional pressures faced by PhD students, such as competing for rare academic positions, or publishing in top ranking journals. 

On reviewing my exegesis, I found I had a new perspective born of my altered circumstances. I reworked it, focusing on showing the process of change, highlighting the alterations, adopting a Kintsugi approach. The exegesis thus reflected the way my creative artefact exposed the scars of domestic abuse. Free of the need to conform or perform, I wrote from the heart and spoke from my soul. This was to be a very different thesis than my prior self could ever have imagined. 

Image of a bowl repaired using Kintsugi (credit: Sonda0112 / Adobe Stock)

Two and a half years on, I completed my doctorate, and was awarded the Dean, Research Award for Outstanding Thesis. 

The outcome

Where I once saw myself as strong, energetic, and capable, I now see myself as quiet, slow and capable in a very different way. Rehabilitation taught me that there is power in tiny steps. Through tiny steps, I completed my doctorate. Through working on my doctorate, I made progress towards regaining my cognitive ability. 

Now, through similar tiny steps, I have brought to life another impossible dream. I’ve published the creative artefact: The Writing Project: Recovering the Writing Self and Regaining Agency through Writing about Domestic Abuse. 

My desire to share my research; my need for a purpose: these are what drove me to complete my doctorate. In the process, I gained so much. My impaired cognitive abilities improved, I felt a genuine sense of purpose, and I continue to feel profoundly satisfied. Giving up the struggle against my chronic illness has allowed me to learn from it. I no longer yearn desperately to return to the life I lost. Instead, I have found new ways of being. 

That has meant finding different, kind, caring people to be involved in my life. It has also meant addressing my need to perform. I still catch myself thinking I’m underperforming, that I should be doing more. But now, I have a compassionate voice in my mind that recognises what I AM achieving in a day (and sometimes that’s nothing more than ensuring my animals and I are all fed). 

This compassionate voice reminds me, ‘Look how far you’ve come!’ 

I never had that side of myself before. Living with chronic illness has shown me how to have compassion for myself, to treat myself with kindness. When I’m feeling dispirited, or judge myself as lazy, I catch these thoughts. I remind myself of the many tiny daily acts that were impossible a few years ago, but that I can now do. I commend myself. 

And can I tell you what I say? I say, ‘Well done, Dr Stacey.’ 

A compilation reflecting aspects of my research, writing, influences and changing identity

Dr Stacey Anwin, is a multi-disciplinarian who has worked at universities in Australia and overseas. Her research memoir, The Writing Project: Recovering the Writing Self and Regaining Agency through Writing About Domestic Abuse is available in paperback from https://staceyanwin.com You can connect with her through LinkedIn.

This blog is kindly sponsored by G-Research