One morning six months ago, I found myself in the shower, freshening up for work after much needed make up sex.
My partner had been going on about a fight we’d had on the side of the road ever since it happened at 3am the previous Saturday.
I played it down until I saw it with my own eyes and literally gasped in disbelief.
I had drawn blood. I had broken his skin where I’d grabbed him – where I had put my hand around his throat firmly enough to let him know his drunken belittling had pushed me too far.
I’d been in denial until that moment. I’d blamed him squarely for pushing me so far with his drunk, cruel words. I’d denied that I had a problem with anger. Yes, I had apologised and said that grabbing him was wrong, but I’d qualified it with the fact that he’d pushed me there and like a cornered animal I had no choice but to lash out.