What it's like to live under a gagging order

I know how difficult it is to stay quiet when you have been through something traumatic, and how it feels to believe that a powerful man has used his money and influence to silence you at a time when you need support. 

Only those who have been placed under a gagging order will understand the toll it takes and the "libel chill" that lingers for years afterwards.  My case isn't quite the same as those who agreed to non-disclosure agreements (NDA) with Sir Philip Green, who secured an injunction against the Telegraph; I was silenced because a judge thought it could prejudice a criminal trial. Whenever I speak about what happened to me I worry that, from prison, the perpetrator might launch a lawsuit against me that I won't be able to fight. He could still ruin me, just with the threat of libel. It makes me very, very nervous. 

Indeed the day I discovered my abuser was going to face justice was the day my trauma really began. I was one of hundreds of victims of Ian Paterson, the breast surgeon convicted for wounding women with procedures they didn't need. For me, it was a lumpectomy and diagnosis of a type of cancer that I didn't have – and one that didn't even exist. 

Discovering that this man had fraudulently scarred my body wasn't the only trauma, though. It was also the reporting restrictions Nottingham Crown Court placed on the case, which extended to all victims, not just those involved in the trial. Wounded physically and emotionally, the judge told me I couldn't speak to anyone beyond close family and a therapist about what had happened. 

For almost a year I had to sit on my hands and go slowly mad. It was beyond frustrating not to be able to tell my friends about this unprecedented, grim thing that had happened to me. To find out your surgery is unnecessary is bad enough, but to not be able to say anything about it was even worse. At times it felt like I was actually going insane telling people something terrible had happened but I couldn't say what. 

I suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) for years before I became one of Paterson's victims. There was a violent crime my youth that meant I have always lived beneath the spectre of male violence. After my surgery, that got worse. I needed to talk about it to help myself work through it, but the only place I could do so was in therapy. Yes, I was able to talk to my close family, but you can't unload on the same people all of the time and the judge was clear that Paterson could not be mentioned to anyone else. Trauma is contagious – and repetitive. The gagging order has slowed the recovery process immensely. 

I admit that I'm different to many other victims, because I want to talk about the abuse. I want to write about it and spread the word on social media. Knowing there are other victims who I could help through writing is one of the biggest frustrations. Once Paterson was sentenced to 20 years for mutilating and wounding his patients, I could start opening up. That led to all sorts of women contacting me about similar experiences. 

One lasting impact is that I have lost all faith in institutions. I have become obsessed with keeping records of everything related to the Paterson case, saving thousands of links, tweets and articles in the event that I'm later told I can't have access to that information. 

After 12 weeks of therapy, I'm a lot stronger, but I have found the Telegraph's investigation into Green triggering. I can't bear the thought that there are victims sitting under this, feeling like there is a hand clamped over their mouth. 

To this day, I still feel like my abuser can exert control over me. He may be in prison, but the grip he has on my mind remains. I'm so careful in what I say and post. He's looking over my shoulder all the time. The crimes he committed were a function of the power he had as a surgeon. It made it so much worse that he was then able to influence my right to talk. 

As told to Cara McGoogan