I was a stalker – too many men are in denial about the way they treat women

Just over seven years ago, I stepped through the prison gates after serving time on a drugs charge. Besides the joy of finally being able to shower alone without being surrounded by burly men with Thug Life tattoos and gold teeth, I had one thing on my mind: seeing that girl I’d grown obsessed with the whole time I was inside. Spending time in a cell had twisted my psyche – what began as just another crush, on the outside, became a symbol of everything I’d lost while locked away. I had to see her.

I first met her at a party just after graduation. We seemed to get on well, and not a day went by that we didn’t text each other about this and that. A friend told me she liked me, and after a few months I finally plucked up the courage to ask her out. I know our wannabe Cupid meant well, but it was not to be. My heart plunged into my stomach.

Growing up, I’d never really learned how to talk to women. While I’ve zero problems connecting on a platonic level, I’m not gifted with natural charm nor very good at reading others, to the point I thought I might be autistic, like a coke-dealing Rain Man. Flirting? Error! Does not compute! I’m also deadly afraid of making the first move; fearing, ironically, it would make me a creep or a rapist. So, the first time I got an idea into my head that a girl liked me, at the age of 23, I thought this was my one and only chance. “There's plenty more fish in the sea” doesn’t feel like a huge comfort to someone who can't fish.

Still, she wanted to stay friends. She even wrote a letter to the judge attesting to my good nature when it was clear I was about to be sent down on a drugs charge. Her rejection hurt, but I should have got over it; I probably would have, under normal circumstances. But being stuck inside a thirteen-square-metre cell gives you way too much time to think and dwell on things.

More than a year passed by – and by the time I walked out, the world had moved on. She had a new boyfriend and new job, which kept her busy. Despondent, I tried ringing her in the hope of meeting up and at least finding some closure. “She’s probably just busy, then forgot to call back,” I thought. So, I dialled again. Still nothing. And I rang some more. Nope. No matter how many times I tried I couldn’t get through, or when I did it was always “next week, next week”. I started freaking out… was something wrong? Did I piss her off? She told me to stop being so paranoid, then began ignoring me altogether.

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Of course, she had a life of her own, and when I bombarded her with texts and calls, she was  unreceptive. You can hardly blame her for wanting to distance herself from me – I was acting completely inappropriately. But at the time, I couldn’t deal with the rejection. I convinced myself that if calling, texting and emails didn’t work, it wouldn’t be so easy to dismiss somebody if they were standing in front of you.

In a panic, I looked up where she lived and unexpectedly showed up at her parents’ house, armed with flowers. She wasn’t home, but later called to say she never wanted to see or hear from me again. I carried on, writing her occasional letters, trying to explain myself, until eventually I got a phone call from the police – and that was enough for me to realise what I’d been doing. It wasn’t so much fear of winding up back in prison, it was more that it finally clicked that she really didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.

While I was never arrested or charged, a polite call from the police carried with it the implication that I might threaten or hurt her. I was particularly hurt by that, because I had no such intention, and meant no such thing. But, crucially, now I know that women have no way of knowing that.

While alleged murders like Sarah Everard’s are thankfully (relatively) rare in this country, dozens of women are still killed by known stalkers or vengeful exes each year. Research shows that 97 per cent of women aged 18-24 have endured some form of sexual harassment, and around one-in-five experience sexual assault. The girl I had fixated on was short – I was much more physically imposing. Whatever was actually running through my mind, how I was acting didn’t make me one of the “good guys”.

And yet, we see hashtags like #NotAllMen trending – and it’s this that makes me determined to speak out. Because I’ve been one of those problematic men. And no, it’s not all men, but this type of behaviour doesn’t just apply to creeps, stalkers and rapists – all men have to check themselves, and think about the way they come across to women; as friends, strangers or colleagues.

While there’ll always be misunderstandings, too many of us don’t take a moment to question how we might make women feel. I learned that the hard way. “Speak for yourself, mate,” you might say. But it’s easier to distance ourselves from “them” – the extreme cases – than to recognise just how common our unwanted attention can be: putting pressure on women, getting too “touchy-feely” or invading their personal space.

It can be hard to accept – especially for someone like me, whose ego is on thin ice already. But what’s important is to step back and think about what we’re doing. It took years for me to recognise, and own, what I’d done. What happened took place at the lowest point in my life – it’s not who I am now. But that doesn’t make it okay. And by listening to women, and paying attention to our own behaviours, we can all learn something. It’s never too late to change.

The author’s name has been withheld to protect the victim’s identity