Here I sit. I am currently having a mental health crisis. But it is temporary. Literally, I approximate a period of six hours until I recalibrate myself. I think of son, my dear prince. I have plans some time this year to gift him my current iMac. I would certainly not like it if he saw me in this state. I wish I was not this reckless with my mental health. I don’t want to destroy all the progress I’ve made so far. But due to struggling with life, I had a micro relapse…
As a forensic psychoanalyst, I often reserve my opinion on situations that are frequently misunderstood and which cause great offence to particular communities. However, personally, I cannot, I don’t want to, and I will not tolerate any form of romanticisation of those who harm children sexually – the pederasts. Nowadays, there is plenty of that. There are pederast prophets in some religions, pederast presidents in some countries, and pederast people who migrate.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Too many thoughts rush through my mind. Too many memories of injustices which might never end. A repertoire of traumas that I can only wish I could shake off. But I cannot; the scar that sexual abuse left in my life cannot be erased. It cannot be healed. It cannot be forgotten. It haunts me every day…
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Dear readers, it is with a measured composure that I recount the chapters of my early life in Britain, not as a lament, but as a testament to the unyielding spirit that has propelled me forward. Born amidst the vibrant hues of Colombia, my existence was irrevocably altered when my then stepfather, under the guise of benevolence, orchestrated my horror. As I write this, it is 3rd November, 2025. It’s 22:50 and I am filling a form to access my medical records from the NHS. I am being asked to provide my full list of addresses where I have lived, and I had to Google the postcodes as I did not recall these. I came across the farm business the man who once adopted me owns, and I felt that I had to write about those times between 2006-2007 to finally let go and heal.
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Losing weight was almost impossible for me in the last few years. This was compounded by negative experiences I’ve been through such as domestic abuse, stressful court processes, missing some of my family members, dealing with the consequences of my mental health breakdown in 2024; and developing new health conditions, as well as relapsing in panhypopituitarism. I tried many things and nothing seemed to help. Clearly, something was wrong with my metabolism or hormones, perhaps triggered by such a multilateral distress-overload. The hardest part of all was tackling prejudice, ignorance, and stigma. Yet, finally, I am seeing results. You can join me in this journey and story.
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It’s Friday, August 22, 2025, at 08:17 PM BST, and I find myself once again wrestling with the echoes of an abusive past that lingers despite my efforts to move forward. The individual who once hurt me continues to exert control, now through court proceedings, demanding I “stop publishing anything about him” on social media or my blog. First of all, I have deactivated my Facebook, even though I haven’t shared a single detail that identifies him or his physique—my posts, crafted carefully, focus solely on my own journey, my feelings, and my healing process after escaping a toxic relationship.
My perpetrator has spun wild accusations, suggesting I was recruited by someone from his past to infiltrate his life and labelling me “vexatious” in court. He’s self-representing in a theatrical manner, even attacking the court’s integrity, all while under an injunction. He continues to harass me by stalking my blog and social media profiles in which I have not blocked him because I forgot he existed there. He is creepy, to say the least, and truly reminds me of Ted Bundy in court. His arrogance, his devaluation of public office solicitors (only women have been representing me) is contemptuous. He called an honourable judge “sexist”, simply for being a woman. Yes, he truly fits the profile of a misogynist.
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I decided to go into forensics because since I was a child, I had a natural gift of dealing with troubled individuals so as to keep myself safe. I grew up in Colombia during the 90s, a time when the Constitution of 1991 was established, and a time when violence, narco-cartels, the paramilitary, satanic sects, death squads, and fresh magnicides took place. Indeed, utter political chaos was the status quo. Yes, Colombia was in deep crisis during this decade, and psychological deviations were all over the place. What seemed normal everywhere, was also a hyper-manifestation, and hypernormalisation of what now is classified as abnormal.
Among the many ills of Colombia, were sexual deviations. And that’s how my ‘career’ into forensic psychoanalysis began when I was only six years old.
As I write this update on Tuesday, May 6, 2025, I’m struggling to find the courage to publish this blog post, overwhelmed by fear and self-doubt that have resurfaced after a series of messages from my perpetrator over the weekend. One message, in particular, has thrown me off balance: he mentioned his relative contacting me, thanked me for wishing him well, and pleaded for one last try at couple’s therapy, offering to pay for counselling and claiming it’s confidential, so I’d have “nothing to lose.” He denied that his actions—like ghosting me for two days due to a hangover—constituted abuse, accusing me of mislabelling them and implying I’ve made him seem like a physical abuser by not providing “details.” He ended by saying he’d never contact me again if I didn’t reply, but his words have left me spiralling, feeling like the abuse is my fault all over again.
This message, along with others he sent over the weekend, has reignited the fear that’s kept me from sharing my story. I’m terrified that if I publish this post, he’ll see it and retaliate, especially since the Non-Molestation Order I applied for through the National Centre for Domestic Violence (NCDV) is still being fast-tracked and isn’t yet in effect. The NCDV has been working diligently since I contacted them on May 1, 2025, but the process has taken longer than expected, leaving me vulnerable to his ongoing harassment. His past threats—like saying “Big mistake” on April 13 when I set boundaries—make me worry he’ll escalate, perhaps by showing up or intensifying his smear campaign, as he did with the local community. I’m scared he’ll twist my words, claiming I’ve misrepresented him, and that others will believe his gaslighting over my truth. As someone with health problems, I’ve already battled self-doubt, and his accusations exploit that vulnerability, making me fear I’ll be seen as “deluded” or “overdramatic,” labels he’s used to undermine me.
The emotional toll has been immense—my panic attacks have worsened, and my mental health team increased my Diazepam prescription this week because my emotions have become so intense, teetering on the edge of stupor and catatonia. I’m also afraid of his manipulative pull; his suggestion of therapy tugs at the part of me that once hoped he could change, despite his emotional abuse in our past sessions with Stephanie. But I’m determined to publish today, knowing that the support of PDAS, JWA, and the First Response team, along with the Clare’s Law disclosure that validated my experience, gives me the strength to speak out and help others break free.
The traumas will take time to heal. I’m working on rebuilding my self-esteem, reminding myself that my schizophrenia and depression don’t make me “disgusting”—they’re part of my journey, and I’m stronger for surviving them. I’m reclaiming my love for theology, finding solace in the texts that once brought me joy, refusing to let his threats taint that part of me. I’m also channelling my experiences into something positive: I’m reviving my plan to turn my website into a platform for emotional support for women, sharing resources, coping strategies, and a safe space for others to heal, just as I am.
If you’re reading this and recognise these signs in your own relationship—the withdrawal, the gaslighting, the threats—please know you’re not alone. Reach out to support services like Women’s Aid or your local First Response Team. You deserve to feel safe, to be loved without fear, to break free from the possession of abuse. I’m still healing, but I’m free now, and that freedom is worth every tear I’ve shed. I hope my story gives you the courage to find yours.
