I was abused by my partner. It shaped my career as a journalist

This First Person column is the experience of Anna Maria Tremonti, host of the CBC podcast, Welcome to Paradise. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

WARNING: This article contains details of intimate partner violence.

For my first job interview at the CBC in 1981, I spent an unusual amount of time making sure I had just the right outfit: a collarless jacket trimmed in the style of a white Chanel suit. I paired it with a dark blue blouse that I could button right to the top. It wasn't just a fashion choice. I needed to hide the bruises. There was a purple ring of them around my neck with my husband's fingerprints left there after he tried to choke me a few days earlier.

I told myself I wouldn't cry or show any emotion if they asked about him in the interview because they knew him; he, too, was a journalist. Luckily they didn't, and I kept it together enough to get that job. But my instinct to hide the abuse in my personal life from my professional colleagues got its start right there. 

As I walked into that first job at CBC, and then others, I knew my experience of being what we then called a "battered wife" would have been deemed a bias. I had been reporting for a couple of years and I saw how the societal stigma around this kind of violence blamed the victim back then. 

By the time I left full-time employment with the CBC 38 years later, I was known for war reporting and tough interviews with a reputation for doing more than the usual number of stories on gender-based violence. But my own struggles with the long-term consequences of intimate partner violence and how that shaped my determination to cover issues related to the abuse of others was a secret I kept. Until now.

When we talk about objective journalism, whole cohorts of journalists have made the long overdue observation that objectivity is a white man's subjective construct. The fundamental rules of reporting have been skewed by news organizations dominated by men of European descent whose own lives and views set the standard of what constitutes news and how to report it. And while that is just so glaringly flawed and damaging to the search for real truth and accountability, we still see people fighting to hang onto it.

Early in my career, after I'd escaped that marriage, word got out that my husband had been abusive. I remember a boss in a new job talking to me quietly about my possible bias when I pitched a story related to new numbers showing an increase in domestic violence. I got the message. After all, I was ambitious and I didn't want to sidetrack my career. Over the years, I thought about how my public disclosure might help others in abusive relationships but I worried that exposing my strong personal connection to such an important topic could limit my journalistic freedom or pull me away from other stories I cared about. 

Over time, I unapologetically gave prominence to stories related to gender-based violence. But even as I gained editorial control over the stories I covered, my own shame and self-blame kept me from sharing my own story.  

I believe my own experience made me a more empathetic and nuanced reporter, but the assumption of a harmful bias remains in many newsrooms when it comes to gender-based violence. Look at the Washington Post's decisions in 2018 to bar Felicia Sonmez from stories related to sexual assault because she went public about her own sexual assault. Women continue to face charges of bias for the violence they endure and for how society continues to see them.  

But what if we confronted that idea of bias another way? My ex-husband, who always told me the reason he beat me was because I drove him to it, went on to become a news boss for a regional television network. 

What did his bias as a violent perpetrator who blamed victims do to his news judgment? How many stories did he refuse to assign? And how have the choices of male news leaders affected how society continues to view gender-based violence? 

We know those who are not white and not heterosexual face abuse at even higher rates; I don't even have to ask how long newsrooms have ignored their stories. We know the answer.

Forty years after getting out of that abusive marriage, I have finally chosen to talk publicly about my own experience in a podcast about the long tail of intimate partner violence.