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.

In July, I attended a child arrangements hearing concerning my son. My ex initiated proceedings shortly after a non-molestation order had been issued. From the outset, I was warned that my case would be undermined not by evidence, but by perception. I was told I did not “present” as a victim, and that his barrister would dismantle me on the stand.

The abuse did not end when I left him. It continued, quietly, strategically, through solicitors and legal process. I have explained what followed many times, often leaving others visibly unsettled.

For clarity, I mean my own solicitor, not his.

The hearing on the 16th caused the greatest harm.

She was hostile from the outset. She refused to listen to my concerns about my child’s safety. She repeatedly denied that I had informed her of matters I could evidence I had raised. She appeared confused about the purpose of fact-finding and the relevance of a Section 7 report, despite my having made my position unequivocally clear from our very first meeting.

I had been desperate for a Section 7 to be ordered. I said so repeatedly. When asked, “Do you really want someone appointed to your child?” my response was immediate and unambiguous: yes.

Because they are my child.
And because someone independent needed to protect them in the long term.

The hearing was conducted remotely because my ex failed to attend the previous one. Eventually, CAFCASS and the court did order a Section 7. However, the process itself was deeply damaging. I was told I was irrelevant. My non-subject children were dismissed entirely. My request to reference Practice Direction 12J—specifically designed to safeguard victims of domestic abuse—was ignored.

When the order arrived, it was devastating.

What I managed to read was inappropriate and retraumatising. It echoed his long-standing attempts to redefine my character to align with his narrative. I have still not been able to read it in full.

Worse still, with the order came an immediate demand for an update. No concern was shown for my well-being. It felt as though my solicitor was acting in his interests rather than mine.

That was the day I left work, and I have not returned since.

As is often the case, the next blow came late on a Friday afternoon. An email arrived. I opened it and found myself staring at photographs of the man who destroyed my life. Images I actively avoid. Images that remain on my child’s wall because they love their parent.

I became light-headed. I could not stand. I could not breathe properly. I had to call a friend. The trauma response was immediate and overwhelming.

Why was he sending photographs I avoid looking at?
Why was I staring at an image of him in a tailored suit, when I had sold my belongings and my children’s toys to pay off his debts?
Why was he accusing me of financial control when I could barely afford to feed my children at the time?

But the worst part was his eyes. They haunt me.

This was not accidental. This was further abuse—facilitated.

I have been shaking since. I feel physically unwell. I understand the psychosomatic nature of trauma, but living with the anticipation of what he will do next is paralysing.

I want to contact Victim Support. I do not know where to turn. I feel increasingly distressed about my solicitor. In October, I am expected to face him again. I am terrified.

I will be alone.

I do not know how to protect myself from the psychological harm he has already inflicted—and will continue to inflict—through the system. He is adept at this process. I am not. And yet it is my life that remains under his control.

CMHT prescribed lorazepam to manage the trauma related to the police and ongoing legal proceedings. I took it for the first time tonight. It was devastating to realise that I now require medication simply to tolerate seeing his face.

I cried uncontrollably.

Is this what my life has become—needing medication to survive contact with the person who harmed me?

And the question that lingers, unanswered, is this:

What will the final decision mean—for me, and for my child?