'My Bumble date threatened and terrified me. For months afterwards, I gaslighted myself.'

Content warning: This story includes descriptions of sexual assault and domestic violence that may be distressing to some readers. 

It had been a fun-filled week of 30th birthday celebrations and, not ready for the party to end, I decided to take myself on a solo adventure to Edinburgh.

I didn't know anyone in the city and on my second night decided to meet a Bumble match for a drink.

Brad* came to meet me at my hostel and as we settled in at a nearby bar, his pint glasses quickly piled up while a tequila shot would appear in front of me every time he disappeared to the bar.

At chucking out time he led me across town to another bar ‒ which turned out to be closed ‒ prompting him to lose his temper. I patted his shoulder and reassured him it was okay. I did, however, desperately need the loo. 

He told me his place wasn't far. I wasn't keen on visiting his flat but equally averse to peeing down an alley now that I was fresh into my thirties.

The first thing I noticed was the broken light in the stairwell, and we clambered up the spiral staircase in the dark. I joked uneasily that this "felt a bit rapey" and he let me walk behind him.

Watch: We lose one woman every week in Australia to domestic violence, but that's just the tip of a very grim iceberg. Post continues after video.

Brad made me a drink while I finally relieved myself. However, his behaviour quickly changed. 

I began secretly recording videos on my phone.

I said I was uncomfortable and, given that I didn't know where I was, asked him to call me a taxi. He refused. My phone had run out of space for videos by this point.

He wanted me out ‒ right now. Suddenly he appeared in front of me and the next thing I knew was his hand in my hair. Somehow I ended up on the ground, and as the kitchen lino pressed against my cheek, I thought: I might die today.

I was paralysed with fear but knew I had to scream so someone would know I'd been here.

It was a relief to be thrown out of his flat but I was shaking so violently I couldn't let myself out of the building. My voice echoed through the dark stairwell, and I begged emergency services for help before he heard my cries and came to finish me off.

Those following few days are a haze. I stayed in the city out of defiance and because I was too ashamed to go home. It sounds absurd now, but I somehow managed to cultivate sympathy for him—this was clearly not a happy person—which I now understand was a coping mechanism. I tried to enjoy Edinburgh with new friends from the hostel but imagined I was seeing him on every corner.

It wasn't until I was safe in my home country of Wales that I finally allowed myself to break down. 

I learned it had taken the police eight days to arrest Brad, before telling me there was nothing else to be done.

I wasn't in any state to work that first month and drank to shut out the horror film which played on repeat in my head. I felt in my gut he'd done this before and would do it again, so I spent my time posting his face on every corner of the internet, reasoning that if the law wouldn't protect women, we had to protect each other. I also found the time to trash Scottish police across social media.

Edinburgh's domestic abuse unit suddenly called to say my case had legs: Brad was known and there was a pattern of behaviour.

In the meantime, women continued to message me their thanks while men accused me of lying.

I began to wonder if it had been a figment of my imagination after all. To reassure myself he'd existed, I'd stare at a screenshot of his photo a million times a day. I obsessively trawled the internet for any proof he'd existed. I even tracked down the Joop aftershave he'd worn and hated myself for the comfort his smell on my sleeve brought.

My mind began to play tricks on me:

This is your fault for ignoring your gut.  

He wouldn’t have done it if you were prettier.

It could have been worse. It’s not like he did X or X.

I've always been a staunch believer that we're never to blame for other people's actions, but I was plagued with thoughts I wouldn't dream of directing towards anyone else.

I also felt let down by the people closest to me ‒ I noticed the way their eyes darted anxiously when I tried to talk about it until I'd given up and changed the subject. The people who came through for me were the ones I'd never to. 

Listen: This episode of The Quicky is for the men in your life to let them know just how common women and girls are being harassed and assaulted not just in private, but even in broad daylight. Post continues below.

As for the victim blaming, I'm not sure my heart will ever heal from that.

This month Brad finally pled guilty to a charge of behaving in a threatening and abusive way towards me, and was ordered to pay me compensation. My mind has been filled with a perpetual screaming since that day and I've finally come to terms with the fact I may have PTSD.

As bad as this has affected me, I'm trying to hang onto the fact that Brad's face has been plastered across every publication in Edinburgh and beyond ‒ and for that, it's all been worth it.

*The author is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous. Names have been changed.

If this has raised any issues for you, or if you just feel like you need to speak to someone, please call 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) – the national sexual assault, domestic and family violence counselling service.

Feature Image: Getty.