It wasn't until the razor-sharp edge of a broken CD was held to my throat that I realised I was in real trouble. That, and the threat that followed, to rape me with my mobile phone.

This attack had come without warning, with terrifying speed and ferocity. My head was knocked through the plasterboard of the bedroom wall, I was flung, pushed, and dragged to the kitchen, held down, and kicked all over my body. While my head was being knocked repeatedly on the concrete floor with force, I heard myself beg my partner to stop, heard myself say I would be killed. That's when I knew it was a real possibility.

And that was the moment I knew, finally, that our relationship had to be over.

My partner was, and still is, a senior hospital clinician. I had worked as a general practitioner for several years. I had never forgotten the first dazed woman who sat in front of me with bruises, nor my own shocked anger, pity, and …