Some stories take a long time before they’re ready to be brought into the light. They’re too raw and devastating, requiring tender, patient care in the darkness before they can be gently eased out into sunshine. This is one of mine.

I remember the first time that my late husband, Bear, hit me. The night he threw me to the floor and choked me. The moment he grabbed me, shoved me outside, and locked the doors, leaving me shivering in the dark.

I learned later that Bear had cancer that had metastasised to his brain, causing severe inflammation and swelling that completely altered his personality. When the swelling was bad, he was violent and aggressive, when it went down again, my lovely, kind Bear was back, but with no memory of what he’d done. Everything made sense later, but at the time, all I knew was that my loving, supportive husband was disappearing and my once good marriage was a living hell.

My upbringing in a patriarchal religious cult left me wholly unprepared for how to navigate this situation, and it took time before I found the courage to tell Bear’s doctors what was happening. Thankfully, they were supportive and helped me develop strategies to keep me safer while still looking after Bear. They ensured I had the support of a good therapist so I was not alone in my situation, and we began to refer to Bear as two distinct personas: Good Bear and Evil Bear.

This separation of personalities helped me navigate the day-to-day hell I was living in, but had a side effect: it made me feel that the abuse I was experiencing didn’t count, that it wasn’t “real abuse” because there was no intention behind it. It wasn’t Bear, it was the cancer. It wasn’t his fault, so there was no “bad guy” to be held accountable. It was this horrible netherworld where violence, cruelty, and emotional abuse were symptoms, not behaviours, side effects, not conscious choices. When someone chooses to abuse you, there is recourse, a clear plan of action, and, in the best-case scenario, the police are called, evidence is provided, and the perpetrator is arrested and incarcerated so the abused person is safe. But what do you do when the guilty party is cancer?

I would navigate it much differently now. I would prioritise my safety and well-being and tell those close to me so I would be supported and protected, but I did the best I could with what I knew at the time. I set boundaries, validated and documented my experiences with Evil Bear, and celebrated those precious moments when Good Bear was in residence. But it was exhausting, overwhelming, and deeply painful. Evil Bear was vile, not only harming me physically, but regularly telling me that none of our friends would love me if they actually knew me, berating me for not doing enough even though I was working full-time, managing the farm, and caring for him, and telling me I was useless, worthless, and unlovable. It was…devastating.

In those moments, even though I knew he’d have no memory of it later, I stood up for myself. I’d look him in the eyes and say, “Babe, I love you so much, but this person you are right now is nasty and cruel and you do not get to treat me like that. I do not believe a word you are saying. I am kind and loving and brave and I’m going outside now because I deserve to be treated with love. I’ll be back in a little while when you’re yourself again, and we’ll have a lovely time together.” Then I’d go out to my gardens and pull weeds and sob and dig holes and sob until the pain dissolved into the soil and I could face my life again. Then I’d take a deep breath, climb the back steps, and hope against hope that Good Bear was waiting for me.

Bear’s doctors continued to run test after test, trying to figure out what on earth was doing this to him. In the meantime, our world got smaller and smaller as his condition worsened and his good moments got fewer and fewer. We couldn’t go to medieval events or meet up with friends for the simple reason that I couldn’t let Evil Bear harm anyone else.

Finally, the results came back: cancer. It was both a devastating shock and deep relief. Everything fell into place, everything made sense.

Until Bear went into hospital, no one had experienced Evil Bear but me. His first morning there, the hospital called and asked me to please come in early because he was out of control and calling for me and they hoped I’d be able to calm him. I could hear him bellowing from down the corridor and I walked into a scene of utter mayhem. His cancer-addled brain was telling him that they were attacking him, holding him against his will, and the sheer panic and fury on his face until he saw me was horrible to see. He thought I was coming to rescue him and take him home, but the moment he realised I wasn’t, he hit me. Someone triggered an alarm and it took four wardies to hold him down so they could secure him. I leaned against a wall in the corridor and cried with anguish, yes, but also relief that I didn’t have to do this alone anymore.

Later, when Bear had received a strong anti-inflammatory and painkillers, he was his dear old self again, smiling and chatting with the nurses as they did his obs. He grinned at me from his bed and told me how happy he was to be in a different room because in the old one there was a crazy man yelling and screaming and causing so much trouble. The nurse smiled and said, “Robin, that was you!” I’ll never forget the look of utter shock on his face. He looked up at me for confirmation and I nodded. He was horrified and apologised to the nurse and asked her to bring in all the staff who had been in there so he could apologise to them too. She assured him that wasn’t necessary, but he insisted, so all the doctors and nurses trooped in and he apologised profusely for what he’d put them through. They assured him it was unnecessary, that they knew it wasn’t “him” but just the cancer. After they left, he apologised to the nurse again and she said, “Robin, you don’t need to apologise to me, but you do need to apologise to your wife because you hit her.” The colour went out of his face then, and again he looked up at me, “Babe?” I nodded and he just deflated, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, just sat there.

The nurse left and I sat beside him and took his hand. “Love, I need to talk with you about this. You hit me today, yes, but it’s more than that. You’ve been hitting me for a long time. It’s not your fault, I know it isn’t you, it’s the cancer, and I completely forgive you, but I need to know how you feel about it now that you know.” He sat there awhile, just staring into space, and I thought I might have lost him again, but then he said quietly, “Babe, I’m so ashamed I can’t even look at you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t remember any of it, but I believe every word you’re saying.” We talked then, cried, held each other, and, in that moment, it was enough.

Soon, we were overtaken by the horrors of aggressive cancer and dying. We had a few more precious lucid moments where he said, “Babe, I need to die so I don’t hurt you anymore. I need to die first, because I couldn’t last a single day without you.” Those words and moments were an anchor for my soul when I was ready to heal the abuse after he died.

It took time to be able to face, name, process, and heal the domestic abuse I experienced, but I got there. Naming it as abuse was vital to my healing. I needed to face the whole truth, to honour my own story, to validate what I went through so it didn’t continue to haunt or harm me. It was lovely to see that as I spoke the truth out loud and sat with and felt all the feelings, the abuse, pain, and fear left my soul, and love flooded in, soothing those shattered places with light and warmth.

The physical bruises are long gone, and I’ve stopped flinching when someone moves too quickly around me. I still shrink a bit when someone gets angry, but I have tools that help me ground myself, stand tall again, and befriend anger as a necessary, valid, and empowering emotion as long as it doesn’t devolve into abuse of any sort. I sometimes get teary when I talk about those dark days, but they’re tears of gratitude for my healing, safety, and inner strength. I feel safe in myself and in the world again, and I know to my bones that I deserve to be treated with love, dignity, and respect.

I have two pictures of Bear in my cottage, one of Good Bear, one of Evil Bear, and I’m grateful that I can now look at both of them with love and compassion. Good Bear healed me with his love, protection, and gentleness, while my experiences with Evil Bear taught me to heal myself, to be my own advocate and defender, my own steadfast source of love, kindness, and generosity of spirit.

I’m a different person now, and I’m so grateful for the chance to go forward in this world with a heart that is brave and strong yet somehow, amazingly, still soft and open. I’m so very proud of myself for that.