If you can't say anything......

There is a particularly traumatic storyline running in the Archers at the moment and it's one that is set to run and run.  Much has been written already about the abuse of Helen Titchner by her husband, which has been carefully timed to coincide with the long overdue legislation on coercive control. http://www.newstatesman.com/politics/feminism/2016/02/helen-s-story-abuse-archers-reminds-me-my-own-so-i-m-willing-her-leave  This storyline is well written but it is upsetting the listeners. Most listeners have been swearing at the radio for about a year.  In our house the Long Suffering Husband mutters, "Bastard," under his breath and even the dog leaves the room everytime Rob speaks. Listeners have taken to Twitter in droves to complain about how 'unrealistic' this is.  They don't believe that her parents haven't noticed, they don't believe that she would put up with it, they don't think it would have gone on so long, they don't think Henry sounds like a normal 4 year old, they don't believe that her friend, Kirsty, isn't banging on the door day and night trying to help.

People have said that they aren't going to listen until it's all over. They have claimed that this story is bad for their mental health.

It's worse for Helen. Don't panic - I know she's not real; she can't be because this story will probably have a good ending for her.  Most women in her situation suffer in silence for years; ten or twenty is not uncommon before the husband's behaviour escalates to a point that it can no longer be ignored. In England and Wales 8% of women will experience domestic violence a year and 2 women a week will die at the hands of their partner or former partner.  How many of us will swear blind that we have never known anyone who has suffered from domestic violence?   Even when people do know they place the responsibility firmly back with the woman. It becomes her job to leave him and never go back; to be strong at a point when all her strength has been taken from her.

This story is upsetting me too and it's making me feel guilty.  Should I have done more when women told me things that made me worry about them? I've woken up this morning, thinking about one woman in particular.  I have lost my voice again and this time I seem to be on complete silent mode.

I knew a woman, briefly, whose name I can't even remember, who was married to a preacher at one of those happy-clappy churches.  Everyone said what a wonderful man he was.  She knew that.  He made sure of it.  He told her, "I'm a saint to everyone round here." Over a few weeks she started to paint a slightly different picture.  It helped that I was a complete stranger, with no power to interfere in her life. I worried about some things she said.  She asked me how I managed my housekeeping and I was surprised.  I had thought housekeeping money had gone out with the ark.  I asked her if she had a job and she told me that she would like to work but her husband wouldn't allow it.  She had to be at home for him and the children.  She told me that he insisted on having fish for tea on Friday, as he was a good Christian but as he didn't really like most fish it had to be smoked salmon.  This was before Lidl and her £20 a week housekeeping money didn't quite stretch to luxury items like smoked salmon. One week she was very distressed because he had invited a lot of people round for dinner and she didn't have enough housekeeping money to cater for them.  I suggested that she just tell him that she needed more money for this event and, maybe, a little help. She visibly shook at the thought.  I slipped a £5 note in her handbag when she wasn't looking and took a homemade cheesecake round later that evening.  Another time she joked that she had been praying to Jesus to delay her period because she didn't have enough money for sanitary products.  "Oh, for Gods sake," I said, "That's ridiculous.  He needs to give you more money."
"He can't.  He's teaching me about the cost of things.  He can't just give me money whenever I ask for it.  How will I ever learn to manage a budget if he does that?"
"He sounds like a bastard to me.  If I were you I'd just bleed on everything.  That'll teach him!"
She laughed before clapping her hands over her mouth in horror.
I didn't see her for a month.
I worried but did nothing.  I put it from my mind.
I saw her in the distance and ran to catch her up.  The thought crossed my mind that she was avoiding me.
"I haven't seen you for ages," I said.
"Oh, hello," she pretended she hadn't seen me earlier. "No, I, er, well I lost my voice."
"How frustrating."
She laughed. Small bubbly, girlish giggles.  "It's my fault."
"What's your fault?" I bristled ready to ring the police or go round and confront him personally, or maybe not, on reflection I wasn't that brave.
"Well you see, after I saw you last time I noticed that I was having some unkind thoughts and so I prayed.  I asked God to make me say only nice things."
"And you lost your voice?"
"Yes.  Funny isn't it?"
"Not exactly.  Sounds to me like God wants you to say the bad things."
"Oh, you are so funny," she said before pulling the hood of her coat over her head and rushing away.
I never saw her again and someone told me that they moved.

I'm wondering if my voice is allergic to the Church, as it always seems to disappear at the end of term, when I have spent time preparing for our school end of term services.  Maybe my voice gets cross at a God that allows for women to be treated so badly and thinks, "If I can't say anything nice, I won't say anything at all."