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  • The Accountability That Never Comes from West Mercia Police

    The Accountability That Never Comes from West Mercia Police

    NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.

    Content Warning: This post discusses domestic abuse, child safeguarding concerns, police misconduct, trauma responses, and emotional distress. Please take care while reading and step away if needed. Support resources are listed on our Help & Guidance page.

    May 28, 2024.

    Content note: This post discusses police corruption, domestic abuse, coercive control, and the psychological impact of institutional betrayal. Some sections describe acute mental health crisis.

    A year ago today, my workplace was taken from me as a safety net.

    The anti-corruption and professional standards team called to pop in. I had no idea that my seemingly innocuous actions would trigger a wave of panic — one that spread fast among those deeply embedded in a culture of corruption within the police force. I stood up against that misconduct. And for that, I faced the wrath of an institution protecting itself.

    The only honest officer in that equation — Sergeant Smith — was targeted too.

    My Experience with West Mercia Police Corruption

    I was unjustly branded as the “victim” of misconduct in public office while he was falsely accused. The disbelief, the anger, the profound despair — it was overwhelming. True betrayal of public trust does not lie in how professional standards treated us. It lies in the wilful negligence of numerous officers who chose to look the other way while corruption festered within our local police force long before Smith’s arrival.

    The trauma from my interactions with West Mercia Police has taken so much from me. I wake up each day knowing I have to survive another round of this. I endure. I confront the haunting hell they have put me through. Each day feels like a battle against a system that should protect us but has become a tool of deception.

    The Investigation Unravels

    The anti-corruption team arrived. The conversations quickly took a turn — quite different from what I had been told they were coming to discuss. Sergeant Smith had been arrested. PC Rolls’s situation was used as nothing more than an excuse. None of my colleagues could believe it was not PC Rolls being led away. Sergeant Smith was falsely accused of misconduct in public office.

    In the year that followed, I was positioned as the victim. That status was hard to maintain when I refused to corroborate something that simply had not happened.

    The 19 officers I encountered told so many contradictions — documented lies that I can prove. I know I am not the only one who has noticed. But institutional corruption speaks far louder than individual witnesses. I understand why those who know cannot speak up. I do not hold that against them. But lives will be lost because of how this force treats people.

    28 May 2024 — A Day Etched in Trauma, Deceit, and Relentless Injustice

    Speaking out against my ex and the police revealed his deep-seated connections within the force. Amid all of this corruption, Sergeant Smith stood apart. He saw me as a person — not just another case number. And for that, he paid the price.

    My investigation was marred by deception at every turn. My IOC assured me I was awaiting a CPS decision.

    A phone call from a new officer shattered that.

    The case had never been sent.

    Another lie.

    Six months later, it happened again. Information my ex should never have had access to was used in the family court. Two days after that phone call, my mental health spiralled in a way I had never thought possible. After 34 years, I had been luckier than I ever realised — until then.

    I could not leave the house. I had to go off sick. The weight of it all was crushing. Then came my first panic attack — the sheer force of it was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I came home, overwhelmed, and punched a wall. Desperation manifesting in destruction. My mind was tormented. I could not face any more.

    He mentioned an officer’s name in court to manipulate the facts. He deceived the court. When the origins of that information were challenged, those seeking accountability were silenced. The institution appeared intent on protecting perpetrators and hiding past truths.

    Family links began to emerge. I linked my ex and his family to a former police officer who held a grudge against Sergeant Smith. They protected their own. No matter how extensive my ex’s criminal record, it gave him enough fuel to keep the abuse going.

    Then — conveniently — came the moment that confirmed everything.

    An email.

    Not incompetence. Not oversight. Deliberate betrayal.

    I collapsed at work, suffocating under the weight of it. They needed a scapegoat and waited until the last possible moment to strike.

    Sergeant Smith was their choice.

    My case was doomed from the beginning — the moment PC Rolls failed to act on the disclosure. Fourteen months later, just one week before Sergeant Smith’s first court hearing, my coercive control case was suddenly dropped.

    “Not meeting the threshold,” they claimed.

    Then came yet another blow — one they had hidden for an entire month. The CPS dropped my “victim” status on 24 December. They did not tell me until 25 January. Then, as if orchestrated, they pulled another charge out of nowhere. A hollow excuse. A calculated move.

    How could I be a “victim” in one criminal case yet merely a “member of the public” in another? The answer is more than unsettling — it is damning. This was not just failure. This was not just negligence.

    This was corruption. A deliberate effort to silence, discredit, and protect the guilty.

    The Systemic Corruption

    Because I care too much, does that make me a bad nurse? Who wants a healthcare professional who just ticks boxes? Our intuition and lived experience make us good at our jobs — they protect our patients. It is not just about following procedure. Our expertise allows us to adapt our approach to the person in front of us.

    The conversation with the anti-corruption team was a huge turning point. In less than one month — for the first time in years — I had finally started to feel safe. And then it was gone. In the past year, the system’s corruption has become all too clear. The aftermath has been filled with lies and dishonesty from officers who were supposed to uphold justice. Some acted as though they were completely untouchable.

    As I await Sergeant Smith’s trial in 2026, I cannot help but wonder who anonymously and baselessly reported him. I believe it was a hollow, calculated move — a narrative designed to shift blame and protect the corrupt. Was it my OIC Number 4? One of his team members?

    In April 2024, Sergeant Smith passed my case despite my concerns. Two of the six officers on his shift had already caused my children and me unprecedented harm. I could not face another one. But he took it on — and compiled a detailed file meant to connect all past events in the police records, linking call logs, case details, and every document I had painstakingly gathered as evidence.

    The Lies, the Silence, and the Cost of Inaction

    When OIC Number 5 took over, they assured me of thoroughness. Everything passed from OIC 4 was included in the evidence, they said.

    But only one file appeared to have been touched — one I did not even recognise. All 12 of my lever-arch files were identical in condition. This one was not. It was also the only one in pieces.

    And it was no shock. Seven months earlier, OIC 4 had not handed over my ex’s arrest details to OIC 5. Why anyone had faith in the integrity of that transfer, I will never know.

    Then came another discovery. Why were other confidential documents left in the file — documents I should never have seen? It makes me question whether OIC 5 ever actually reviewed what I had meticulously compiled.

    The deeper I dig, the clearer it becomes. This was not just negligence. This was calculated. Planned. Either to cover the actions of many — or to punish those who spoke out.

    Was it OIC 4, tampering with records? Or OIC 5, failing to examine the evidence I provided? Was it the officer who left reports proving further deception by my ex? Or the one who failed to document serious child abuse allegations that went unrecorded for weeks — until the NSPCC urged me to pursue them?

    And yet they insist my investigation was not compromised.

    I think back to 21 December — a moment etched in my mind. Finch looked straight at Rolls before lying to my face: “The CPS only takes WhatsApp and text messages from a six-month history as evidence.” He dismissed the hundreds of files I had sent — audio, video, everything. Evidence that should have mattered. Evidence that should have been enough. But it was not.

    Finch was not acting alone. Rolls was his mentor — OIC 1 shaping OIC 2. I had held off raising a complaint against Rolls because I liked Finch. He seemed warm, approachable. I wanted to believe he was different. But youth and inexperience are not excuses for failing to act. They are not excuses for leaving a child jumping at shadows, forced to sleep with a knife for protection. They are not excuses for allowing abuse to continue unchecked.

    And then there is the deeper wound — the one inflicted not just by neglect, but by forced reliving and invalidation. Every time they dismissed my evidence, they made me relive the abuse. Every time they ignored the truth, they reinforced the lie that my suffering did not matter.

    Traumatic invalidation is not just painful — it is corrosive. It erodes self-worth. It forces victims to question their own reality. It deepens wounds that should have been healed long ago. Instead of protection, they gave me doubt. Instead of justice, they gave me silence.

    And yet they insist my investigation was not compromised.

    The Absurdity of the False Accusations

    It is incomprehensible that Sergeant Smith — a man with 38 years of service — has been accused of something not only false but logistically impossible.

    There was never a moment when he was alone in my house. I had two traumatised teenagers who barely slept, terrified of their ex-stepfather, taking knives to their rooms for protection. A toddler who slept beside me every night and clung to my side every day.

    The accusation that he was trying to form a sexual relationship with me is not just baseless — it is physically impossible. There was never an opportunity. There was never any privacy. There was never anything beyond professional kindness, support, and friendship.

    If I had been twenty years older, this would never have been framed this way.

    And yet he has been vilified — for simply doing his job. For treating me with dignity. For trying to help rebuild what had been shattered.

    They needed a target. Someone who fit their narrative. They could not prove what I believe “grooming” would describe. I screamed from the rooftops about what the rest of them had done. The original crime suddenly changed. It was as though they were hell-bent on burying him.

    The impact has been devastating.

    For him, a career built on integrity has been reduced to a smear campaign. For me, the weight of injustice is suffocating. Those entrusted with protecting us have chosen to collude with a perpetrator. They punish the innocent while shielding the guilty.

    Living with the Trauma

    Reflecting on the past year, I find it unbearable. I still cannot drive past PC Rolls without the trauma triggering an extensive response. I need sedation to sleep. I doubt he has any difficulty sleeping — he likely believes his own lies. My formal complaint surrounding his conduct will be published here.

    Others have endured the same. No one will ever understand what it is like to have such corruption plague your entire life. The journey is far from over. I have nothing to lose because they have already taken too much of me.

    I still have not watched television since 2023. I cannot sit, think, or live unless I am at work. It is the only place I find any respite from the torture they have put me through. My children have lost the mother I once was.

    I still document everything. When I am not writing, I attempt trauma processing. I have started a memoir of my life over the last 19 months, focused solely on West Mercia Police. It has to be slow — trauma-focused therapy wipes me out. But reading the first few chapters, I can see how far I have come.

    A Question of Humanity

    I have a recording of the hour-and-a-half conversation with the anti-corruption team when they arrived at my workplace. Listening to it tonight made me think about when one officer referenced being reprimanded for picking up glass. Was picking up glass part of his job? What was the enormous risk? Do you pick up glass at home safely? Did the victim have a dustpan and brush?

    Building a positive relationship with the police takes time, as does ensuring the safety of a vulnerable member of the public. If you judged it safe to sweep up some glass, doing so protected someone. Why is that considered wrong?

    It is not in my job description to do what I do some days. But I do it because I care. Protecting others is not just about sticking to a script — it is about looking at the big picture to prevent harm.

    Trauma is a relentless companion. But I believe the truth will eventually come to light. For now, wearing my mask is my only means of survival. Daily, I remind myself that the lies and corruption may be persistent — but they are not invincible.

    The truth will prevail. And those who have wronged will face some form of reckoning.

    A messy workspace featuring various binders, scattered papers, and handwritten notes, indicating research or documentation efforts related to an investigation.
    An email correspondence discussing coordination with a PVP officer regarding ongoing investigations, with a note about potentially missed information.
    Accountability & Experience: My West Mercia Police Story
    My Lived Experience: A Personal Journey Through Trauma and Recovery
  • Police Victim Blaming in Domestic Abuse Cases: The Hidden Trauma No One Talks About

    Police Victim Blaming in Domestic Abuse Cases: The Hidden Trauma No One Talks About

    NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.

    When Victims Are Blamed by the Systems Meant to Protect Them

    Victims of domestic abuse already carry enough.

    Fear. Shame. Confusion. Hypervigilance. The constant work of surviving someone else’s control while trying to make sense of what has happened to them.

    So when someone finally reaches out for help, the response matters.

    It can be the beginning of safety.

    Or it can become another wound.

    One of the most damaging responses a victim can receive is victim-blaming, especially from police. It does not always sound obvious. Sometimes it is subtle. Sometimes it comes dressed as professional questioning. Sometimes it appears in what is not recorded, what is minimised, or what is treated as less important than the perpetrator’s version of events.

    But the impact is real.

    And for victims of domestic abuse, it can be devastating.

    What Victim-Blaming Looks Like

    Victim-blaming happens when responsibility for abuse is shifted away from the person causing harm and placed, directly or indirectly, onto the person who has been harmed.

    In domestic abuse cases, this can sound like:

    Why did you stay?
    Why did you go back?
    Why did you not report it sooner?
    Why did you let the children see it?
    Are you sure it was that bad?
    Could this just be a relationship breakdown?
    Is this really about contact?

    These questions may be framed as fact-finding, but when asked without an understanding of coercive control, they can reinforce the exact messages the abuser has spent years embedding.

    That it was your fault.

    That you should have stopped it.

    That you are exaggerating.

    That you are the problem.

    For someone already conditioned by abuse, those messages do not land lightly.

    They go straight into the wound.

    Why It Causes So Much Harm

    Domestic abuse is rarely a single incident. It is often a pattern of control, fear, manipulation, degradation and psychological harm.

    By the time many victims speak to police, they may already be exhausted. They may doubt themselves. They may struggle to explain events in a neat, chronological order. They may appear calm when they are traumatised, or emotional when they are being honest.

    None of that means they are unreliable.

    It means they are human.

    When police respond with disbelief, minimisation or blame, the victim is forced to relive the abuse while also defending their right to be believed.

    That is retraumatisation.

    And it is not a minor side effect of poor communication.

    It can change the course of someone’s recovery.

    Retraumatisation Is Not Just Emotional

    People often talk about trauma as if it is only distress.

    It is not.

    Trauma lives in the body.

    It can look like panic, shaking, dizziness, nausea, chest pain, insomnia, flashbacks, dissociation, intrusive thoughts, memory fragmentation, emotional shutdown or complete collapse after appearing calm.

    A victim may sit through a police interview, answer questions, sign statements and look composed.

    Then fall apart afterwards.

    That does not mean they were fine.

    It means they were surviving the interaction.

    When police victim-blame, dismiss or mishandle disclosures, they can deepen that trauma. They can make the victim less likely to seek help again. They can also make the victim feel less safe than they did before they reported.

    That is institutional harm.

    The Link With PTSD

    Repeatedly having to disclose abuse, defend your credibility and correct inaccurate records can contribute to long-term psychological harm.

    For some victims, this becomes part of the trauma itself.

    PTSD can involve flashbacks, nightmares, hypervigilance, avoidance, intrusive thoughts, panic, emotional numbness and a constant sense of threat.

    For victims of domestic abuse, these symptoms can be intensified when the systems meant to protect them become another source of fear.

    It is not only what the perpetrator did.

    It is what happens afterwards.

    The disbelief.
    The poor recording.
    The minimisation.
    The handovers.
    The repeated retelling.
    The feeling that your own life is being interpreted by people who have not understood it.

    That is why police responses matter so much.

    What the Law and Guidance Already Recognise

    The Domestic Abuse Act 2021 gives a statutory definition of domestic abuse and recognises that abuse can include emotional, controlling, coercive and economic abuse.

    That matters because domestic abuse is not limited to physical violence.

    The NPCC and CPS Joint Justice Plan set out the need to improve the criminal justice response to domestic abuse, including better training, stronger accountability and improved support for victims.

    The Independent Office for Police Conduct has also issued guidance on ending victim-blaming, recognising that language, assumptions and professional attitudes can cause real harm.

    So the issue is not that nobody knows victim-blaming exists.

    The issue is whether those principles are being applied in practice.

    Because guidance means very little if victims are still leaving police interactions feeling blamed, disbelieved, unsafe or responsible for the abuse committed against them.

    What Needs to Change

    Police officers need proper trauma-informed training.

    Not tick-box training.

    Not a short online module that gets forgotten.

    Real training on coercive control, post-separation abuse, trauma responses, child safeguarding, perpetrator tactics and the harm caused by victim-blaming language.

    They need to understand that victims do not always present in the way people expect.

    Some cry.
    Some freeze.
    Some talk too much.
    Some cannot speak at all.
    Some sound detached.
    Some arrive with folders, timelines and evidence because they have already learned that if they do not create the record themselves, no one else will.

    None of those responses should be used against them.

    Police forces also need stronger accountability when officers fail to record crimes properly, minimise disclosures, or allow personal bias to influence safeguarding decisions.

    A victim should not have to become their own investigator just to prove they told the truth.

    Belief Is Not Bias

    Believing victims does not mean abandoning evidence.

    It does not mean ignoring due process.

    It means starting from a place of professional curiosity rather than suspicion.

    It means asking better questions.

    What has made it hard to leave?
    What control is still continuing?
    What are the children seeing, hearing or experiencing?
    What does the perpetrator gain from this version of events?
    What risks increase now the relationship has ended?
    What has already been disclosed, and has it been properly recorded?

    That is not bias.

    That is competent safeguarding.

    The Cost of Getting It Wrong

    When police blame victims, minimise abuse or fail to act, the harm does not end with that interaction.

    It follows the victim into family court.
    Into safeguarding meetings.
    Into mental health appointments.
    Into work.
    Into parenting.
    Into sleep.
    Into every attempt to rebuild a life.

    Poor police responses can strengthen the perpetrator’s position and weaken the victim’s credibility. They can leave children exposed to further harm. They can make the victim feel that telling the truth was not only pointless, but dangerous.

    That should concern everyone.

    Because domestic abuse victims do not need perfect systems.

    They need systems that do not make the abuse worse.

    A Survivor-Centred Response

    A survivor-centred response does not require grand gestures.

    It requires officers to listen properly.
    Record accurately.
    Avoid assumptions.
    Understand coercive control.
    Recognise trauma.
    Take children’s experiences seriously.
    Challenge perpetrator narratives.
    And remember that the person in front of them may have used every last bit of strength they had just to speak.

    Victim-blaming is not harmless.

    It is not just poor wording.

    It is not just a difficult conversation handled badly.

    It can retraumatise victims, damage mental health, obstruct justice and reinforce the control they were trying to escape.

    Victims of domestic abuse deserve to be met with dignity, belief and professional competence.

    Not blame.

    Not disbelief.

    Not another system they have to survive.

    Further Support

    If you are navigating police misconduct, victim-blaming, negligence or failures in duty of care, I have created a dedicated NAAVoices resource to help explain the process and your options:

    Police Misconduct Guide – NAAVoices.com

    You are not the problem for needing protection.

    You are not difficult for asking to be heard.

    And you are not responsible for the abuse someone else chose to inflict.

    Further Support

    For guidance on recognising and reporting police misconduct, refer to my dedicated resource. It covers topics such as victim-blaming, negligence, and breaches of duty of care. Police Misconduct Guide – NAAVoices.com

    My Lived Experience: A Personal Journey Through Trauma and Recovery
    Accountability & Experience: My West Mercia Police Story
  • A Year Ago Today: The Disclosure That Changed Everything

    A Year Ago Today: The Disclosure That Changed Everything

    Content Warning: This post discusses domestic abuse, child safeguarding concerns, police misconduct, trauma responses, and emotional distress. Please take care while reading and step away if needed. Support resources are listed on our Help & Guidance page.

    NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.

    One Year Since I Told the Truth

    A year ago today, almost to the hour, I disclosed four years of domestic abuse to a West Mercia Police officer.

    I also disclosed child abuse, common assault, drug distribution, fraud and harassment.

    I told the truth.

    I expected protection.

    What followed changed everything.

    Instead of acting properly, recording what needed to be recorded, and protecting my children and me, that officer allowed his own views to shape what happened next. His response was not neutral. It was not safe. It carried assumptions about fathers’ rights into a situation where my children and I needed safeguarding.

    The consequences of that have never stopped unfolding.

    One Year Later

    Today, I received an updated court report based on open police disclosure.

    Reading it felt like being dragged back to the beginning.

    The police appear to have disclosed only one NFA relating to a non-molestation breach. What was missing mattered even more. There was no proper record that my children had disclosed abuse a year ago today.

    A year.

    And still, the record does not reflect what was said.

    Still, the harm is being carried forward.

    Still, the gaps left by that officer are shaping decisions about my children’s safety.

    There is so much more I could write about the months it took to evidence what had happened. The missing records. The failures to act. The attempts to challenge what should never have needed challenging in the first place.

    But tonight, the clearest truth is this.

    The actions of one officer placed my children and me at further risk, and I am still living with the consequences.

    Reading It at Work

    I was at work when I read the report.

    That detail matters, because trauma does not wait for a private room. It does not check whether you are in uniform, whether you have patients to see, whether you are expected to keep functioning.

    It lands where it lands.

    Tonight was also the final lecture of the first year of my master’s module. I had been doing well. Really well. I had fought hard to stay focused, to keep learning, to keep being the version of myself that still had a future beyond all of this.

    But tonight, I could not cope.

    It is one thing to have your life controlled by the person who abused you.

    It is another thing to have that control extended by the actions of someone who was supposed to protect you.

    The Layby

    I had to drive.

    I have not felt like that for a long time, but tonight I drove back to the layby I ended up in when Sergeant Smith was arrested.

    Back then, I would drive around for hours because I no longer felt safe in my own home. I would sit in places where nobody needed anything from me, where I did not have to explain, where I could just exist for a while.

    Tonight felt similar.

    Except this time, it was not my home that felt unsafe.

    It was me.

    My mind.

    My ability to keep carrying the weight of what his actions had created.

    I stood next to the gate and felt the wind hit my face.

    The stars were out.

    I used to look up and believe John and my grandad were somewhere up there. I am not religious, but I have always believed that the people you have loved and lost are still there somehow. Watching. Holding something you cannot hold for yourself.

    There were huge stars tonight.

    Maybe I needed to see them.

    Maybe I needed to remember that I am still here.

    The Question That Will Not Leave

    What gave a police officer the right to cause this much damage?

    What gave him the right to take my disclosure, my children’s safety, and four years of abuse, and filter it through his own bias?

    What gave him the right to leave gaps that I am still falling through a year later?

    Because that is what this feels like.

    Not one mistake.

    Not one bad day.

    A failure that became a chain reaction.

    A disclosure that should have led to protection became the beginning of another fight. A fight to be believed. A fight to correct the record. A fight to prove that what happened to us happened at all.

    And I am tired.

    Tired in a way sleep does not fix.

    Tired of carrying the consequences of decisions I did not make.
    Tired of trying to repair damage I did not cause.
    Tired of being expected to function inside systems that keep reopening the wound and calling it process.

    A year ago, I told the truth.

    Tonight, I am still living with what happened because the person listening did not do what he should have done.

    And that is the part I cannot make peace with.

  • Returning to Work with PTSD: When a Place of Safety No Longer Feels Safe

    Returning to Work with PTSD: When a Place of Safety No Longer Feels Safe

    Reflection — Two Years On

    Original entry, 10 September 2024, written during active trauma

    The entry that follows was written during a period of active trauma, while the abuse and its consequences were still ongoing. At the time, I was attempting to survive, parent, work and make sense of events that kept unfolding. I did not yet have the neurological framework to fully understand what was happening to my mind and body.

    During that period, I was studying the neuroscience module of my postgraduate certificate. One lecture in particular focused on neuroplasticity and the neurological impact of trauma. Through neuroimaging and clinical evidence, it became clearer to me that PTSD is not a personal failure or a weakness of character. It is a trauma-related condition that can profoundly affect the nervous system, particularly when someone is repeatedly exposed to threat or forced to relive harm.

    That understanding mattered.

    For a long time, I carried responsibility that did not belong to me. I questioned my decisions, my resilience and my capacity to cope. I told myself I should have left sooner, should have handled things differently, should have been stronger.

    What the science helped me understand was that the injury did not arise from leaving too late. It came from the abuse itself, and from being repeatedly pulled back into it through systems that failed to protect us.

    I had left. I was no longer living with him.

    What followed was not something I chose, and it was not something my children deserved.

    The neurological changes I live with are the consequence of sustained harm and re-traumatisation. Those who caused that harm made choices. Systems and individuals who failed to intervene also made choices. The injury that resulted is not mine to own in terms of blame, even though I am the one who has had to live with its effects.

    This reflection is not a correction of the entry that follows.

    It is context.

    The original post remains close to how it was written. It reflects the reality of that moment, before I had the same insight and understanding I have now. It was written before science helped me make some sense of what had happened to me.

    Within the Two Years On series, entries are presented as they were lived, alongside the understanding that came later.

    The words that follow are not evidence of failure.

    They are evidence of injury.

    And of survival.

    Returning to Work with PTSD

    (Original entry — 10TH September 2024) (written during active trauma)

    PTSD is often described as a mental health condition. Living with it, however, has felt more like a traumatic injury to my nervous system than an illness I simply developed.

    I learned about this recently, and it left me with questions I cannot easily answer.

    Does this mean I have to endure it forever?

    Will it worsen if the abuse and re-traumatisation continue?

    Research increasingly shows that PTSD and traumatic brain injury can share overlapping neurological consequences following trauma. Global estimates suggest that around 1.1% of the population experiences PTSD within a 12-month period. Approximately 69 million people worldwide sustain a traumatic brain injury each year.

    The neuroimaging below illustrates how PTSD and TBI can differ and overlap in brain perfusion patterns.

    Trauma alters neural pathways involved in threat detection, memory and emotional regulation. These changes are adaptive during danger. However, they can become destabilising when safety is delayed or denied.

    Figure 3. Brain SPECT Images of Healthy, PTSD, TBI and PTSD co-morbid with TBI perfusion patterns.
    Source: Amen et al. (2015). Functional neuroimaging distinguishes posttraumatic stress disorder from traumatic brain injury in focused and large community datasets. PLOS ONE, 10(7), e0129659.


    Top row: surface scans with threshold set at 55%, showing the top 45% of brain perfusion.
    Bottom row: active scans where blue = 55%, red = 85%, and white = 93%.

    • Healthy brain: Full, even, symmetrical perfusion with the most active area in the cerebellum.
    • Classic PTSD: Increased perfusion in the anterior cingulate, basal ganglia, and thalamus.
    • Classic TBI: Multiple areas of low perfusion visible on surface scans.
    • PTSD + TBI: Displays both increased perfusion patterns associated with PTSD and low‑perfusion areas associated with TBI.

    I struggled to wear my uniform

    I Struggled to Wear My Uniform

    With the children back in school and my return to work approaching, I thought it would be sensible to spend some time reacclimatising.

    To get used to the environment again.

    To be around people.

    I struggled to wear my uniform.

    I felt disconnected from the proud, compassionate nurse I once was.

    The ongoing attacks on my character through the court process had deeply shaken my sense of self. It became difficult to protect my identity and continue fighting when so much of who I was felt under question.

    I questioned my strength.

    I questioned who I was.

    I arrived early, completed the routine checks and went straight to my room.

    The grip PTSD can have on the mind is profound. I expected relief when returning to a place that had felt safe for so long. Instead, it felt foreign.

    The warmth had gone.

    There were memories, but not the ones I had expected.

    The comforting memories were gone.

    There had been days when I went home thinking about patients. I would check in because I knew people had a lot to manage. There were times I knew I had made a difference. Work had been the place where I could be myself, where I felt free, and where I found respite from the hell I was living at home.

    Instead, the photograph a colleague had encouraged me to keep was still on my shelf. We had covered part of it with another image so that only my child and I remained.

    I could not even look at it.

    When I tried to pick it up, my hands shook so badly that I dropped it. It smashed across my desk.

    The room was full of memories.

    Trauma does not stop at the outside world. It invades even the spaces that once felt safe.

    Haunted by My Sanctuary

    I avoided reception.

    Everyone had been kind, but I was petrified of being asked how I was. I could not keep the emotion away, and crying in a shared workspace was not something I could cope with.

    My nursing team had already been supportive through a difficult period. I did not want to cause more worry.

    It was nearing a year since I left him, and the impact of what we had lived through had touched every aspect of our lives.

    The continuation of it made me feel worse than I did when I left. I had believed leaving would end his control. Now I knew how far he would go, and I could not see an end in sight.

    My colleagues came in individually to catch up, give me a hug and see how I was.

    I wish there had been a cure.

    A way to wave a wand and make it all stop.

    A way to be me again.

    We all have “our” rooms, even if we are not meant to call them that. I had decorated my noticeboard after twelve months because I was certain this was the right place for me.

    I could not stop thinking about how to change the room.

    I kept staring at the same wall. The same view. The same space connected to days when my private life was unstable and I was still trying to work, think and function.

    The chest pain.

    The stress.

    The fear.

    Unless you have lived through something like this, it is difficult to understand the depth of damage it causes.

    One thing I do know is that people in healthcare care.

    Even when they do not fully understand, they care.

    That compassion had not been reflected by many other agencies involved.

    Flashbacks and Intrusive Thoughts

    Flashbacks and intrusive thoughts are particularly prominent in complex PTSD. I hope I reach a point where these experiences ease, where I can close my eyes without fearing what I might see.

    I spoke to my manager about moving my desk.

    A different view might help. However, it was not practical. It would affect the layout of the room and how safely I could work within it.

    He was thoughtful and busy, but he still tried to think of ways we might change the space.

    I suspect he could hear the struggle in my voice and knew I would not say exactly why.

    Normally, I would share anything new with the team. That day, despite knowing I needed a drink, I could not even face going out to get one.

    My work mum asked if I wanted a cup of tea, and I went with her.

    I knew I had to find the strength to return, but where that strength would come from was beyond me.

    Constraints Beyond Choice

    He continued to control the mortgage and still had not signed the deed. I was paying over £600 more each month, and it could take weeks to resolve.

    Going to half-pay was not an option when I needed to provide for the children.

    I completed my flu vaccination training and deliberately avoided anything connected to the police or court. I was trying to find a connection beyond the constant protection of the children, but it felt almost impossible.

    Even reviewing evidence to safeguard them brought further trauma.

    Everything felt overwhelming. Silent and deafening at the same time.

    I think those who live with PTSD will recognise that contradiction.

    My manager found it amusing that I needed to update my safeguarding training. He knew I could probably recite Working Together to Safeguard Children by heart.

    The sole focus of the previous ten months had been safeguarding my own children, yet no one had afforded them the same level of protection.

    I had a few wobbles.

    A few cries.

    I hoped to manage six hours, but I could not.

    At lunch, I felt jumpy. Although I knew I was safe in theory, my body did not believe it.

    It is surreal to feel empty and hypervigilant at the same time.

    Small talk felt pointless, but I still cared deeply about my colleagues. Normally, I would be full of ideas and support.

    I did not want them to know how far away I felt inside.

    I am beginning to realise it is not my team who are the odd ones.

    It is the wider world.

    When empathy and compassion feel rare, those who still carry them matter.

    The Blog as a Safe Space

    I contacted CMHT and called my GP.

    I was not on regular medication, only medication for acute trauma responses, but I had run out and was worried about how I would manage the following day.

    One colleague had become a close friend. She and my work mum provided character references for court. I could not read them at the time.

    It was clear that I had changed, despite my attempts to fight through.

    I hated being seen differently, yet part of me was relieved they could not see inside my head.

    This blog became my safest space. The only place I could be honest without causing worry to those I care about.

    The next day, I had to meet CAFCASS.

    I was terrified they would see only the broken version of me, not the person I was before the abuse became too much.

    I did not want to be broken.

    I knew I could not live freely while he continued to exert control, and I feared what he would do next.

    I had not been able to process what I had lived through because it had not stopped.

    I knew there was still part of me inside.

    I did not know whether I would ever fully come back.

    The Real Hug

    That evening, my youngest asked their middle brother for a “real hug.”

    Watching them climb out of bed to embrace stirred something in me.

    These moments, small and fleeting, are what I cling to.

    They remind me of what things once felt like.

    They remind me of what is still worth holding on to.

    This reflection is shared as lived experience to support domestic abuse awareness, trauma-informed understanding and the normalisation of mental health support. It is not intended as clinical advice or a comment on any individual patient, colleague or workplace. Identifying details have been limited where appropriate to protect privacy and maintain professional boundaries. The purpose of sharing this is advocacy, reflection and reducing stigma around trauma, domestic abuse and seeking help.

    My Lived Experience: A Personal Journey Through Trauma and Recovery
  • At the Starting Line, Again — The Cost of Being Passed from Officer to Officer

    At the Starting Line, Again — The Cost of Being Passed from Officer to Officer

    NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.

    Two Years On — Reflection

    Reading this back now, I can see the pattern far more clearly than I could then. At the time, I only knew that I was exhausted, frightened, and falling apart. Now I can name it for what it was: the slow, cumulative damage of being passed from officer to officer, team to team, having to reopen the same wounds every single time.

    People talk about re-traumatisation like it is an unfortunate side effect. It isn’t. Not when the system keeps making you start again from the beginning. Not when every handover means retelling the worst parts of your life to strangers and hoping this time somebody will actually understand.

    Content warning: descriptions of trauma response, hypervigilance, and distress connected to police contact.

    Back at the Starting Line

    I cannot shake the feeling that I am right back at the starting line.

    Back at the beginning of a fight I never asked for, and one that still does not seem to have an end.

    I do not know how much fight I have left in me. So much of me has already been worn down. It took everything to speak in the first place, and even that now feels like it has been pulled apart, reframed and handed back to me as something else.

    The police have my files. My words. My evidence. Pieces of my life.

    And I do not trust that any of it will come back to me whole.

    The Fifth Set of Officers

    I saw another new set of officers this morning.

    The fifth.

    I thought I would be okay. I told myself it was just another meeting. But there is nothing simple about sitting down again and dragging yourself back through things that nearly broke you the first time.

    My body reacted before my mind had a chance.

    The dread.
    The panic.
    The tight chest.
    The feeling that my skin does not fit properly.

    It was all there again.

    The officers seemed pleasant enough, which somehow made it harder. The male officer had once worked at the same hospital as me. You would think familiarity might ease things slightly.

    It did not.

    It made me feel more exposed.

    When they knocked, I only opened the door part of the way. I still do not know whether that was intentional or just panic. The female officer seemed to sense my hesitation and gently asked if they could come in. By then, I had already stepped back.

    Cleaning Before They Arrived

    They arrived earlier than I expected.

    I had woken with the kind of anxiety that turns into frantic movement, as though keeping busy might stop the fear from catching up with me.

    So I cleaned.

    I scrubbed the kitchen. Emptied and cleaned the fridge. Swept the floor. Rushed through the bedroom and bathroom. Put washing on. Wiped every surface. Hung laundry outside. Mopped. Hoovered.

    All in less than an hour.

    I told myself it would help me feel more in control.

    It did not.

    By the time they sat down, I was on the sofa with my laptop, shaking.

    I messaged a friend, hoping it might steady me. It helped a little, but the loneliness still sat there. That awful feeling that no matter how many people care, some parts of this are still only yours to carry.

    And underneath it all, life still had to keep moving.

    The day still had to be managed.
    The children still needed me.
    Everything still continued, no matter how shattered I felt.

    What You Cannot Un-Give

    By then, I had handed files over to two separate offices.

    Pages and pages of my life.

    Evidence. Records. Disclosures. Things that had cost me dearly to gather and organise.

    And still, I had no real sense of whether anyone had properly read them, understood them or kept them in order.

    Some things had been picked out. Some things had clearly been framed in certain ways. And I was not there when that happened.

    That helplessness is hard to explain unless you have lived it.

    The feeling of your own life being handled by other people, sorted and interpreted by strangers, while you are left outside the process.

    I keep wondering what real change any of this can bring. Whether everything I poured myself into, all the documenting, all the evidence, all the attempts to make sense of what happened, will simply disappear into another file.

    By that point, my trust in the police had gone.

    The Envelope

    While looking through folders today, I found an envelope I had forgotten about.

    Inside was my will, and a letter I had written months earlier to the officer who is now the subject of an investigation I never asked for.

    I could not bring myself to read it again.

    I did not need to.

    I remembered the state I had been in when I wrote it.

    I had once emailed myself a copy from my work computer, during a rare moment when my head felt steadier. I found that email too, but I still did not open it.

    When they were going through the files, I handed it over.

    There is something deeply unsettling about giving away pieces of your life that you can never fully take back. Once they are out of your hands, they are no longer just yours. They become part of a process. Part of a file. Part of someone else’s interpretation.

    And I kept thinking about the first officer.

    The one I had originally tried to disclose everything to.

    I remember myself then, speaking too fast, tripping over my words, apologising over and over while trying to explain what had been happening.

    Apologising.

    As if I needed to make myself smaller while telling the truth.

    As if I had to soften my own pain to make it easier for someone else to hear.

    That still stays with me.

    Music, Driving and Holding It Together

    When things get bad, I use music to regulate.

    I know from the outside it probably looks strange. The same song on repeat, over and over. But it is not really a preference.

    It is survival.

    After the officers left, we drove for several hours to stay with family overnight.

    The drive was awful.

    I cried behind my sunglasses for most of it. Silent crying. The kind where you are trying to keep your breathing steady so the children do not worry, while feeling like you might fall apart at any second.

    I tried to sing along to the music because sometimes it gives my brain something to hold onto.

    That day, it barely touched it.

    I kept being pulled in and out of flashbacks while trying to stay present enough to keep driving.

    My middle son sat in the front beside me with his headphones on, like he often does. He knows what PTSD looks like. He knows my triggers. He has watched what this has done to me in real time.

    He has watched my trust in the police disappear piece by piece.

    At one point, he rested his head on my shoulder while I was driving.

    There was something heartbreakingly tender about that.

    Your child trying, in the only way he can, to comfort you while you are still trying to be the one holding everything together.

    Explaining the Coping

    On the way, I messaged my grandma to explain that I might need music in my ears while we were there.

    I did not want her to think I was being rude. I just needed her to understand that sometimes music is the only way I can drown out the memories and thoughts racing through my mind.

    Other times, when everything becomes too much, I need silence.

    Complete silence.

    I do not know whether that is good or bad. I only know that both are part of how I am trying to survive.

    The people close to us can feel it. They know when things are not right, and that creates tension around everyone. The children had a lovely day with their grandma, but I struggled with patience and tolerance.

    I hate that.

    I used to love visiting her. It was one of the places I felt happiest and most at home.

    Now, nothing feels the same.

    Nearly Three in the Morning

    We are staying in a lovely Airbnb with fairy lights around the room. The kind of place that should feel peaceful.

    But it is nearly three in the morning and I cannot sleep.

    Tomorrow, I have to travel to sign further documentation connected to the ongoing investigation.

    It is a lot to cope with.

    I wish I could talk to someone about how I feel, but I am finding it hard to trust people’s motives now. I have never tried to use anyone for personal gain, but after everything that has happened, I find myself questioning who is genuine, who wants something, and who might take advantage of my vulnerability.

    My mind keeps racing.

    On the way here, I kept remembering the day I learned that the first officer I disclosed the abuse to had given a talk about fathers’ rights at my son’s nursery.

    I was already unwell at pick-up, with palpitations and chest pain. By the time I got home, I could barely stand.

    My sister had to collect my son. My two older children helped me crawl across the landing and into bed.

    I took cardiac medication and, honestly, in that moment I did not care much what happened next.

    I just remember crawling.

    That is the image that stayed.

    Not strength.
    Not resilience.
    Not the polished version of survival people like to talk about.

    Just me, crawling, because my body had finally had enough.

    And the thought going round and round in my head was this:

    No matter what I do, something else finds me.

    What Changed, and What Was Taken Back

    Then in March, something changed.

    Someone finally listened.

    Someone understood post-separation abuse. Someone did not look at me and decide I was just a woman trying to alienate her ex-partner. Someone recognised what I had been trying to say all along.

    More than that, they acted.

    For a moment, it felt like maybe I was not losing my mind. Maybe I had not imagined the gaps, the failures, the things that should have happened and did not.

    And then that support was taken away.

    Now I feel like I am back where I was in December.

    Eight months later, sitting in front of another team of officers, trying to explain the same danger, the same harm and the same reality.

    I did not create this cycle.

    I did not choose it.

    I have just been the one forced to live inside it.

    Accountability & Experience: My West Mercia Police Story
    My Lived Experience: A Personal Journey Through Trauma and Recovery
  • Back to reality. Two Days of Kindness Can’t Erase Months of Trauma

    Back to reality. Two Days of Kindness Can’t Erase Months of Trauma

    NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.

    I left this morning — left a place that will always hold a piece of my heart.

    This family welcomed Matthew and me with open arms. They showed us genuine warmth and kindness despite barely knowing us, and the past two days were, in a word, pure bliss. Last night Matthew walked almost two and a half miles each way — including a steep hill on the return. His determination was something I’ll never forget. I found myself prouder of him than I’ve been of anything in a long time. I can only hope the world treats him with the kindness he deserves.

    Driving away this morning, tears streaming down my face, I felt the familiar weight crash back down. The thought of going home. Of facing tomorrow. Of hearing words that will confirm what I already fear. For the first time in a very long time, I found myself wishing for something — anything — to ease the pain I carry inside.

    What’s Coming Tomorrow

    A lot has happened. I’ll share it all gradually, but right now I need to focus on what’s directly ahead.

    Tomorrow, the Police Professional Standards Department are coming to question me about one officer’s conduct.

    When he first encountered me, his colleagues had already done their level best to destroy my life. The trauma I live with daily — the kind that rewires you, hardens you — was already firmly in place by then. I wasn’t seen as a victim when he arrived. At least, that’s not how it felt from where I was standing.

    The hell I’d been through in the months before had changed me. It forced me to handle things alone, to rely only on myself. I didn’t extend to him the automatic respect usually given to authority figures — previous experiences had taught me exactly why not. But his approach was different. Gradually, my respect for him grew. In time, it became something that felt like friendship.

    Now I’m questioning everything about our interactions. Wondering whether my perception was distorted — yet again — by everything I’d already been through.

    Caught Between Two Impossible Things

    Right now I’m sitting with anxiety so intense it makes me feel physically sick.

    I’m caught between two things that feel impossible to reconcile: protecting him, and protecting my own self-worth and dignity. I know, deep down, that my wellbeing wouldn’t be a consideration if the roles were reversed. So the question that keeps circling is: how do I put my own needs first when, in their eyes, I am nothing?

    Sometimes life feels impossibly hard. It tests me — not just through circumstances, but through how people treat me. No matter what I do, or how hard I try, it never feels like enough. I always end up managing the aftermath. I’m never the main concern. There’s this unspoken assumption that I can handle whatever gets thrown at me.

    When you become small in other people’s eyes, being overlooked stops feeling like an injustice and starts feeling like a reflex you learn to live with. Protecting yourself becomes instinct.

    What I struggle with most is this: when I care about someone, I protect them. I try to make things easier. And it is heartbreaking — truly heartbreaking — when the people you’ve given everything to keep showing you, again and again, how little you mean to them.

    It is a very specific kind of grief. The grief of becoming insignificant to people who were never insignificant to you.

    More to come. Slowly. When I’m ready.

    This blog is part of an ongoing series sharing lived experience of trauma, injustice, and survival. If anything here resonates with you, you are not alone.

    Accountability & Experience: My West Mercia Police Story
    My Lived Experience: A Personal Journey Through Trauma and Recovery
  • Nursing Love!

    Nursing Love!

    NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.

    Home Nursing Visits today for Flu vaccines 😊This morning was a little different, I arrived to work to prep for my flu clinic for the housebound. Nice to see patients in the comfort of their own homes, although some incredibly sad situations. We are told not to take our shoes off due to Infection control but some of these houses are so beautiful it would be so rude not to. I am lucky to work with such beautiful people, one of our sectaries came along for administration support, really enjoy chatting to her. She has older children, and we had a good natter about what the world is like now. I love the unpredictability of being a nurse, today was in and out to vaccinate, I know I sometimes end up taking to much time with patients but that is ok, I came back to clinic with a list of requests and jobs I needed to follow up on. Being able to go that extra mile and save them the time of waiting in a queue to request, or things that they would not have bothered asking about until it become to late makes how hard I have worked worth it.

  • Day 1

    Day 1

    Day 1

    7 November 2023

    Last night, I lay in bed writing everything down, the good, the bad, the ugly. I’ve used this technique before; it clears my mind in a way nothing else does. Sometimes I write the difficult things in one colour, then go back over the page in another colour for the positives. It’s strangely therapeutic.

    I’d been sitting up for hours thinking. Eventually, I asked my partner if he wanted to talk things through with me, if I can even call him my partner.
    Of course not. I should have learned years ago that if it isn’t about him, it isn’t relevant. Still, a part of me kept hoping something might change.

    But tonight was different.

    Tonight, I decided: no more ringing Samaritans because I’m falling apart from the life I’m being forced to live.
    Tonight, I chose to do something productive — something for me.
    Somewhere I can get everything off my chest. Somewhere I can notice the changes, even the small ones.

    I can’t promise there won’t be sadness along the way, but I hope that by sharing my story, someone else might feel a little less alone.

    Tomorrow, I’ll write a solid block of background. From there, I’ll blog each day. It doesn’t need to be all doom and gloom. I’m more than happy to talk about nursing, mum life, neurodiversity, and anything else that comes to mind.