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This story is not easy to read but it's harder to live. I am a survivor of narcissistic abuse, sexual assault, and systemic failure. I share this not for pity, but for truth. For every woman who's been silenced, dismissed, or retraumatized by the very systems meant to protect her. I write this to reclaim my voice and to help others find theirs. It took me until my fifties to realize my worth. I’d spent decades carrying the weight of a childhood that stripped me of confidence and self-worth. That was heavily influenced by a nefarious dictator who called himself Dad. The physical abuse was bad enough but he managed to see to it that his children sailed into adulthood without knowing our own value, and no self-esteem whatsoever. I still managed to marry, raise children, and hold good jobs. I’m intelligent, I carry myself well. But until recently, no one knew how little I thought of myself—even me. Then came the man who would nearly destroy me. He was younger, persistent, and now I understand: he was conditioning me for narcissistic abuse. What followed was three years of daily trauma. I ugly-cried every single day. That’s over 1,095 days of emotional devastation. By the end, my energy, my vivaciousness, and my tenacity were barely hanging on. He did the most heinous things. He killed my cat. He threatened my life and my children’s lives. He kept me tethered with fear. He destroyed everything I owned—including my 2009 Tahoe, which I used for work and to care for my kids. He blew it up shortly after he sent me to the ICU, fighting for my life. I had refused to give him the name of the hospital or my doctors. I was there for 18 days. It was touch and go every single day. A chaplain visited me daily. Because it was a very Merry Covid Christmas, my teenage sons weren’t allowed to say goodbye. Looking back, I realize that was a blessing—no one spoke death into my children’s lives. God is good. The infection that nearly killed me, and almost costed me my right leg, came from a sexual assault. I went home on a PICC line, receiving grapefruit-sized balls of antibiotics daily, for 6 weeks. My kids administered them. I had four surgeries in three months and a blood transfusion. Two days after I got home, my truck exploded. I was one of those cars you see on the freeway engulfed in flames. After I got out of the hospital and my truck blew up, I knew I had to fight for justice. I had proof—medical records, pictures, witnesses. I had been choked, stabbed, assaulted, and received death threats in writing and on video. I waited a year to file because I was mentally and physically broken. I had nothing left in me. But when I finally did, I thought someone would help me. I thought the system would protect me. It didn’t. The DA never contacted me. Not once. I had to rely on VINE alerts just to know when he was in court. No one told me anything. A judge denied my protective order and called him “honey” and “baby” in the courtroom. I had a strong legal team from a nonprofit, and even they were shocked. They wanted to move the case to another county, but I was scared. I didn’t want to poke the bear. He was still stalking me. Still watching. I was re-victimized by the very people who were supposed to help me. The police ignored my reports. The advocates mocked me. One even made fun of me for asking about a Christmas meal after I had all my teeth pulled from the damage he caused. I had a minor child at home and no food. And they laughed. The Attorney General’s Victims Compensation Office helped with the hospital bill for my teeth removal, but not with replacing them. They wouldn’t relocate me because we didn’t live together—even though he saw me almost every day. They had help, but not for me. He got six days in the county jail. That’s it. No restitution. No accountability. He still knows where I am. He still stalks me on social media as a way of eminding me that someday he will make good on his threat to come after me when I least expect it. I don’t know where he is. And I live with that fear every single day. After the justice system failed me, I had nowhere to turn but inward. I went through three different women’s centers and maxed out every therapy program they offered. I showed up for every session, I showed up for me, and for my two sons who had seen the whole drama play out—even when I could barely speak through the grief. I wasn’t just healing from physical trauma. I was healing from being ignored, dismissed, and re-victimized by the very institutions that were supposed to protect me. And when the therapy ran out, I didn’t stop. I found free entrepreneurship training through Memorial Assistance Ministries, and I poured myself into it—not because I had a business plan, but because I needed something to remind me I still had value. I enrolled in the Navigator program and just being at a feedback meeting at United Way I was able to tap into some education through some of the country's most prestigious universities. I earned certificates from the University of Maryland, the University of Valencia, and even Harvard. I got my graphic design certification and used it to create empowerment products, journals, and visual storytelling pieces that spoke to the pain I couldn’t always say out loud. I earned 17 certificates through the Texas Advocacy Project, becoming a trauma-informed, lived experience advocate. I did all of this while still healing, still growing and approaching my 60th birthday. Now here I am, still unable to find a job. I have all this knowledge, all this training, and nowhere to apply it. I’m still standing. Still creating. Still trying. But the silence from the world around me is deafening. I didn’t just survive—I transformed. And yet, I’m still waiting for a door to open. I’m going to keep writing. Keep pushing. Keep showing up for my health, even when the systems around me make it feel like survival is a full-time job. I haven’t been able to resolve the dental issues yet, and that alone has impacted my confidence, my comfort, and my ability to fully engage in the world. There’s a very real possibility that I’ll be facing a housing crisis in the coming months. Living on disability isn’t sustainable, and the math doesn’t add up no matter how many ways I try to stretch it. But I’m not giving up. I’ve come too far, learned too much, and built too many bridges to stop now. I’m looking for a miracle—not because I’m helpless, but because I’ve done everything I can on my own. I’m ready for a door to open. Ready for someone to see the value in what I’ve built, in what I know, in who I am. I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for a chance to turn all this lived experience into impact. Into legacy. Into something that finally feels like justice.

My story begins long before the day I finally escaped. I was 18 years old when I met the man who would become the father of my children. At that time, I was young, inexperienced, and still trying to understand who I was and what I wanted my life to become. I had grown up in the country, but because my father had moved our family to country when I was young, I found myself building my adult life in a country that never truly felt like home. When I was 19, I became pregnant with my first child. The pregnancy was unexpected, but I was determined to do everything I could to become a good mother. I had been raised with strong personal beliefs about pregnancy and motherhood, and I made the decision to continue my pregnancy and welcome my son into the world. At the time, I believed that starting a family would bring stability and happiness. I believed that becoming parents would bring out the best in both of us. Instead, the abuse began during my pregnancy. The first incident that I remember clearly happened when I was eight months pregnant with my son. I was working because we needed money to prepare for the baby. One day, while walking home from work, I began experiencing intense pain and physical discomfort. My body was preparing for birth, and I was struggling to walk. At one point, my hips felt like they were giving out, and I had to stop and hold onto the side of a bridge while people around me asked if I was okay. I was eight months pregnant, visibly struggling, and the people around me showed concern. But when my phone started filling with missed calls and messages from my partner, his first reaction was not concern. I was only about 15 minutes late. Instead of asking if I was safe, he accused me of being with another man. He knew I had been at work, but he assumed the worst and demanded explanations for where I had been. At the time, I did not recognize this as abuse. I was young, and I did not understand that jealousy, accusations, and controlling behavior were warning signs. When I arrived home, I found our room destroyed. My books, which were incredibly important to me, had been thrown around, damaged, and ruined. I have always been a reader, and I am also a writer, so those books represented years of memories and a part of who I was. Objects that mattered to me had been destroyed. Things that carried sentimental value were broken. I remember feeling like I had walked into a battlefield. I tried to explain what happened. I tried to make him understand that I had not done anything wrong. Instead, he became increasingly angry. His face changed, he was yelling, and he became physically aggressive. During that argument, he pushed me while I was eight months pregnant. At the time, I did not understand the medical consequences of what happened. A few days later, during a routine appointment, doctors discovered that I had a tear in my amniotic sac and almost no amniotic fluid. I was immediately sent to the hospital. My son was born prematurely after an induced labor that lasted approximately 17 hours. He was born with serious complications and came into the world struggling because of the lack of oxygen. I remember being exhausted beyond anything I had ever experienced. I remember feeling alone. I remember being pushed to continue when I had almost nothing left. When my son was born, I thought the experience would change everything. I thought becoming a father would make him realize the importance of protecting our family. I wanted to believe that he could change. So I stayed. I tried to make it work. But the pattern continued. After my son was born, my life became centered around protecting him and trying to create a stable home. I was a young mother trying to balance everything: working, caring for a newborn, and trying to understand how to navigate a relationship that was becoming more frightening. At first, I kept hoping that the incident during my pregnancy was a one-time event. I wanted to believe that he had lost control because of stress, fear, or immaturity. I wanted to believe that once we had our child, he would become the partner and father I hoped he could be. Instead, the behavior continued and slowly became part of my everyday life. Over the years, the abuse took many forms. It was not only physical. There were constant insults, yelling, intimidation, and emotional attacks. I was called degrading names and made to feel like I was worthless. There were also racist insults that deeply affected me. Slowly, my confidence was worn down. At the same time, I was trying to be the best mother I could be. My son began experiencing serious medical challenges. When he was around two years old, he had his first seizure. At first, doctors believed it was related to a fever, but the seizures continued throughout his childhood. When he was around eight years old, he experienced a severe seizure that caused significant concern and led doctors to discover that he had epilepsy. I remember carrying him and running through the streets trying to find transportation to get him emergency medical care. He was already more than half my size, but in that moment, none of that mattered. I was his mother, and I needed to get him help. After further evaluations, we learned that my son was autistic. We began noticing differences in the way he learned, his writing abilities, his sensitivities, and the challenges he faced compared to other children. Instead of receiving patience and understanding, my son was sometimes insulted by his father because of his differences. He was called names and made to feel less than he was. That was one of the hardest things for me as a mother. I could endure many things directed at me, but watching my child be hurt emotionally was devastating. I tried to leave multiple times. By the time my son was about five years old, I reached a point where I knew I could not continue living in the same way. I decided to separate from his father. We attempted to move into a co-parenting arrangement, but because we were living in the same country without a strong support system, separating was much more complicated than simply walking away. I was isolated. My family relationships were already difficult, and I did not have a reliable support system around me. Many of my friends did not know the full extent of what was happening. I had become used to hiding what was happening because I was ashamed and because I did not know who could actually help me. During this period, I experienced some of the most frightening incidents of my life. One of the incidents happened after he looked through my phone and found innocent messages from someone I had known as a teenager. They were simple conversations, but he interpreted them as betrayal. He became enraged. He grabbed me, dragged me through the home, pulled my hair, and forced me outside while yelling at me. The force of him pulling my hair was so severe that hair was torn from my scalp, leaving a bald spot that I still have today. He threw money onto the street and told me to find a hotel because I could no longer stay there. What made the situation even more painful was that I was the person paying for the home. I reported what happened. The people I was renting from no longer wanted him living there after what happened, and this became another attempt to separate myself from him. But leaving was never simple. The years that followed were a cycle of trying to leave, trying to protect myself and my children, and trying to survive the consequences of each attempt. During the time that my son's father and I were separated, I was trying to maintain some kind of normal life for my son. I wanted him to have stability. I wanted him to feel loved and protected despite everything happening around us. But even after separation, the control did not end. One of the most painful parts of my experience was realizing that leaving the relationship did not automatically mean I was free from him. The emotional abuse, intimidation, and fear continued. There was one night during that period that changed my life forever. I had been invited to go out with a friend. It was one of the first times in years that I had gone somewhere socially. I was not someone who went out often. I was usually at home caring for my son, working, or dealing with everything happening in my life. Many of the people there were part of the same social circle that my children's father had, because we had shared many of the same friends. I had one drink that night, a non-alcoholic drink because I was never much of a drinker. Shortly afterward, both my friend and I began feeling unusually dizzy and unwell. The sensation did not feel normal, especially because the drink was not supposed to contain alcohol. I remember feeling unsafe and deciding that the best thing was to leave. I made sure my friend got home safely first. During the taxi ride, I tried to remain aware of my surroundings. I was trying to stay calm, stay alert, and make sure I arrived home safely. When I reached my home, I discovered that my children's father was there. He still had keys from when we had lived together. I do not remember everything that happened after he came inside. I remember feeling confused and disoriented, and the next thing I clearly remember is waking up the following day and realizing he was in my bed. Approximately four weeks later, I learned that I was pregnant. I struggled deeply with what had happened because I did not understand how I had become pregnant. I carried a lot of confusion, fear, and pain. Because of my personal beliefs and because abortion was not a legal option available to me, I continued the pregnancy. My daughter was born, and once again I tried to believe that this could be a turning point. Her father told me that because we now had two children together, and because he was attending organization meetings and trying to change, we should give our family another chance. I wanted to believe that people could change. I wanted my children to have a family. So we tried again. We moved into an apartment connected to his family, hoping that living somewhere different would create a safer environment. For a short time, things improved. But eventually, the same patterns returned. The anger returned. The insults returned. The violence returned. He began slapping me, pulling my hair, spitting on me, and verbally attacking me again. I found myself back in the same cycle I had been trying so desperately to escape. I reported incidents to authorities multiple times. I sought help. I documented what happened. But each time, I felt like the consequences fell mostly on me. Every time I reported him, I had to deal with the aftermath. I had to worry about retaliation. I had to worry about my children. I had to worry about whether seeking protection would actually make us safer. Over time, I began to lose hope that the system would protect me. The abuse also affected every other part of my life. I had opportunities that I worked extremely hard for, but maintaining them became almost impossible. I had a job at a software company where I taught students, something I was proud of and passionate about. I worked there for two years. But he would create situations where I would be late, interfere with my ability to maintain my schedule, and even appear at my workplace. Eventually, after struggling to keep everything together, I lost that job. It was devastating. I was not only losing employment. I was losing pieces of the future I had been trying to build. Still, I continued working. I continued caring for my children. I continued advocating for my son through his medical challenges. I was exhausted, but I kept going. Because my children needed me.By this point, I had spent years trying to create a way out. I was working constantly, saving whatever money I could, and trying to create some kind of security for my children. I knew that if I ever wanted to truly leave, I needed a place where we could be safe and stable. Before the pandemic, I managed to save enough money to purchase a small apartment unit that belonged to his mother. She was no longer using it, and she agreed to sell it to me. I paid approximately amount for it, and I worked overtime to make it possible. I invested my own money into restoring it and turning it into a home for my children. For me, that apartment represented something much bigger than a place to live. It represented independence. It represented the possibility that one day I could finally have a life that belonged to me. But the pandemic changed everything. When COVID began, I was forced to spend two years confined with the person I had spent years trying to escape. The isolation made everything worse. There was nowhere to go, fewer people to reach out to, and no easy way to create distance. The abuse continued in front of my children. They heard the yelling. They saw the arguments. They saw their mother being hurt and degraded. As a mother, one of the most painful things was seeing how much it affected them. I was trying to protect them while feeling like I had no way out. During this time, I reached a point where I stopped taking care of myself. I stopped caring about my appearance. I stopped feeling like the person I had once been. But I never stopped being a mother. Even when I felt broken, I continued working. I continued making sure my son received the medical care he needed for his epilepsy and autism. I supported him through school. I helped him learn. I advocated for him when he was struggling. Later, he was also diagnosed with juvenile arthritis, adding another medical challenge to a life that already felt overwhelming. I was carrying the responsibilities of raising two children, managing their medical needs, working, and surviving abuse at the same time. I was drowning, but I was still moving. During those years, I tried repeatedly to find help. I reached out to my father. I showed him evidence of what was happening. I showed him police reports. I asked if my children and I could have somewhere safe to go. But because of complicated family relationships and circumstances, I did not receive the support I needed at that time. I also did not have many friends I could turn to. The years of isolation had taken a toll. Many people around me did not understand the reality of what I was living through, and I felt like I had nowhere to go. I had tried leaving before. Several times. But every attempt ended with him finding a way back into my life. He knew how to convince me to stay. He knew how to create situations where leaving felt impossible. He knew that I had limited options because I was in country, without my documents, without a strong support network, and with children whose lives were tied to the country. Eventually, I began planning my escape more carefully. I knew that if I tried to leave without preparation, I could put myself and my children in greater danger. That was when the control escalated. He began taking away the things that made leaving possible. One of the most devastating examples was my passport. He took my country passport and destroyed it. Without my passport, my ability to travel, replace documents, and leave the country became even more complicated. My work equipment was also destroyed, including my laptop, which I relied on professionally. These were not just objects. They were tools that represented my independence. Taking them away meant taking away my ability to rebuild. I felt trapped. I had spent years trying to survive, and I reached a point where I understood something clearly: If I stayed, I did not know if I would survive. I had received threats. I feared what would happen if I truly left. I feared what he might do if he felt he was losing control. But I also knew something else. My children needed me alive. They needed me to keep fighting. And that became the reason I continued.By the end of 2024, I knew I was reaching the end of what I could endure. For years, I had been trying to survive inside a situation where I felt trapped. I had tried leaving. I had tried asking for help. I had tried working harder, saving money, documenting what was happening, and creating a future for my children. But I was exhausted. I had learned that sometimes leaving is not a single moment. Sometimes it is a long process of quietly preparing, waiting for the safest opportunity, and trying to protect yourself and your children while living with someone who has repeatedly shown that they will not respect your boundaries. During this time, money was another way I was controlled. There were many occasions where he would leave for days at a time, taking money with him, leaving me responsible for the children and the household without enough resources. There were times when I had to rely on his family for food because I had no other option. I had previously helped set up a credit card account as a backup because I needed a way to provide for my children during those moments. When he was gone and I needed groceries or necessities, I would use it and then pay it back little by little. I was not using it as a luxury. I was trying to make sure my children had food and basic needs met. When he discovered that I had been using the card and paying it back through small payments, it became another source of conflict and another situation that ended in violence. Three days after Christmas in 2024, everything reached a breaking point. He became extremely angry and decided to remove me from the home. The home he forced me out of was the home I had worked for. The home I had paid for. The home I had restored and created for my children. He packed my clothes into two trash bags and threw them outside. Then he forced me out. I recorded what was happening because I knew I needed documentation. I remember repeatedly saying that I would leave, but I would not leave without my children. That was the one thing I would not compromise on. I would not walk away and leave my children behind. When I tried to get back inside because my children wanted to leave with me, he shut the metal door and injured my arm. I went to the police station nearby because I needed help. I explained that he was keeping my children from me and described what had happened. But I was told that because he was their biological father, there was nothing they could do at that moment. I walked away feeling devastated. The system that I had hoped would protect me was not giving me the immediate safety I needed. That was when I called my father. Our relationship had been complicated for many years. There had been distance between us, and there were many family issues that had affected our relationship. But during that period, I had still worried about him. After he separated from his wife, I would secretly visit him when I could. I would bring him food, make extra meals, and check on him because I felt he was struggling and becoming isolated himself. This time, when I called and told him what happened, something changed. For the first time, he said the words I had needed to hear for so long: "Come here. You can stay here." That moment changed my life. I moved in with my father and started rebuilding. I worked harder than I ever had before. I focused on healing. I started therapy. My father helped me pay for my first month of therapy, which became an important step in beginning to recover from years of trauma. Slowly, things started changing. I received two promotions at work. I began rebuilding my confidence. I began remembering that I was not only a survivor. I was a person with skills, dreams, intelligence, and a future. Most importantly, I continued fighting for my children. Although I was able to create a safer environment for myself, the situation with my children remained complicated. Their father continued trying to use financial demands and access to the children as a way to control me. He demanded that I pay him large amounts of money, including child support and other expenses. Later, I discovered that some of the payments he claimed responsibility for were not actually being made. I continued documenting everything. I continued fighting. Then came the moment that changed everything for my children. The school called me. They asked me to come immediately. When I arrived, I learned that my daughter was sitting outside the classroom and had not been participating. My daughter has always been social, intelligent, and engaged, so the school knew something was wrong. At first, they believed she was struggling because of the separation between her parents. But then my son arrived. He was crying uncontrollably. He was overwhelmed and could barely communicate what had happened. Eventually, he told the school staff that his father had kicked him in the chest and that he could not breathe. For a child with epilepsy and autism, extreme stress and trauma can have serious consequences. The school told me they could not send my children home with their father that day. They told me I needed to take emergency custody because they were concerned for their safety and would otherwise have to involve child protection authorities. So I took my children home. That day, I knew I could not continue hoping things would improve. I had to protect them.Then came the moment that changed everything for my children. The school called me and asked me to come immediately. When I arrived, I learned that my daughter was sitting outside her classroom and had not been participating in school that day. My daughter has always been social, intelligent, and engaged, so the school staff immediately recognized that something was not right. At first, they believed she might be struggling emotionally because of the separation between her parents. They thought she may have been processing the changes happening in our family. But then they told me about my son. My son arrived at school that day crying, overwhelmed, and unable to calm down. Because of his autism, communicating during moments of extreme stress can be especially difficult for him. The school staff brought him to the principal's office so they could understand what was happening. That was when he disclosed that his father had kicked him in the chest and that he had been unable to breathe. Hearing that was devastating. My son already lived with epilepsy and autism, and I knew how vulnerable he was to extreme stress and trauma. I had spent years advocating for his medical needs, his education, and his emotional well-being. The thought that he was experiencing fear inside the place where he was supposed to be safe was unbearable. The school told me that they could not allow my children to return to their father's care that day without further action. They told me that I needed to take emergency custody measures because they were concerned about their safety and that otherwise they would need to involve child protection authorities. So I took my children home. That day, I realized that I could no longer hope that things would improve on their own.After I took my children home, my entire focus changed. For years, I had been trying to survive while also protecting my children. I had spent so much time trying to prevent situations from becoming worse, trying to keep peace, and trying to find a way forward in circumstances where I felt trapped. But after what happened at the school, I understood something had changed. Waiting for things to improve was no longer an option. My children needed stability. They needed safety. They needed a mother who was willing to keep fighting for them. I immediately began taking steps to protect them legally. I gathered the documentation I had collected over the years, including police reports, messages, recordings, photographs, and other evidence that showed the history of what had happened. I had learned through painful experience that telling the truth was not always enough. I needed documentation. I needed records. I needed evidence that showed the pattern of behavior and not just one isolated moment. During this time, I continued rebuilding my own life. After years of being controlled, isolated, and made to feel powerless, I was slowly discovering that I was capable of standing on my own. I had a home for my children. I had employment. I had support from my father. I had started therapy. I was beginning to find the person I had been before years of abuse had taken so much from me. But the conflict with their father did not end. Even after separation, he continued finding ways to maintain control through financial pressure, demands involving the children, and continued attempts to interfere with my life. I continued documenting everything. I wanted the legal system to understand the complete picture—not only one event, but the years of abuse, intimidation, and control that had brought us to that point. Then the situation escalated again. After years of abuse, separation, and conflict, his behavior became increasingly frightening. For approximately a month, I experienced a period of intense harassment and stalking. I felt watched and unsafe. I feared that losing control over the situation was causing him to escalate his behavior and that he was trying to find a way back into my life. This time, I refused to stay silent. I saved messages. I preserved evidence. I documented what was happening. I contacted authorities when I needed help. For years, I had wondered whether anyone would truly believe me. I had reported abuse before. I had gone to authorities before. I had provided evidence before. But each time, I felt like I was left carrying the consequences of trying to seek protection. This time, I continued because my children deserved safety. Eventually, the situation reached the courts. I presented the evidence I had collected over years, along with the evidence from the more recent harassment and stalking. The legal process was extremely difficult. At one point, the case was at risk of being dismissed despite the amount of evidence I had provided. I refused to give up. I appealed the decision and continued fighting to have my concerns heard. Eventually, I was granted a full no-contact restraining order. That moment was significant for me. It was not just a legal document. It was recognition. Recognition that what I experienced mattered. Recognition that my fear was based on real events. Recognition that I had a right to protection. Although the outcome was not exactly what I originally hoped for, there was finally legal intervention. Instead of going to prison, his family intervened and he was placed in an involuntary psychiatric facility. While that was not the outcome I expected, the court recognized that the situation required serious intervention, and I was granted protection through the no-contact order. But even with that protection, my fight was not over. Because my children and I were still in country. And I was no longer fighting only to escape abuse. I was fighting to bring my children home. During this new chapter of my life, I met my husband. He entered my life after I had already survived years of abuse, isolation, and fear. He saw what I had been through and supported me as I rebuilt myself and fought for my children. For the first time in many years, I experienced what it felt like to have someone beside me who believed me, supported me, and wanted a safe future for my children and me. He is now waiting for us in state as we continue navigating the legal process that stands between us and being together as a family. My dream has always been simple: A safe home. A stable life. A future where my children can grow without fear. But because our situation crosses international borders, the process is complicated. My son has a path toward obtaining country citizenship through his connection to the country through the proper legal process. My daughter's situation is more complicated because she is a country citizen, and bringing her to the country requires navigating additional legal requirements. So even after escaping the immediate danger, the battle continued. I escaped the relationship. I survived the abuse. But I am still fighting for my children to come home.

This is long but I need to tell my story. I have to get it out of me. Almost 2 years ago my whole world was flipped upside down. My ex husband had had a couple of emotional affairs earlier in our relationship. I tried seeking therapy. His mom told me it wasn’t necessary at that time. Just a bump in the road. He was physical with me as well. I tried asking for help but I was afraid. I stupidly listened to his family and hid the truth from my own because I didn’t want them to worry. I had sacrificed years of my life, burned myself out, and completely lost who I was so that he could tour with his band. We fought a lot. I became frustrated with him that he was never home. He never wanted to do anything family related. When I begged him through tears to just do something with our son and I at least once a month, he told me I was being stupid. He never helped me around the house or with our son. His drinking began to worry me and cause problems. And he was consistently interacting and being wildly inappropriate with girls online (most of them being much younger than him). Every argument we had was about one of those issues. We moved soon after. To try and start fresh. To move past the “bump in the road”. Then almost 2 years ago, he came home from a work trip. He frequently traveled for work. He started pressuring me into sex. I was still affectionate but told him I was just tired from taking care of the house and our son on my own all week, on top of working a busy job. We argued. I felt like shit at the end of it. If I had just put out we wouldn’t have argued. The next morning, he dropped a bombshell on me. “I’m bored” he said. I asked him what does that mean? I didn’t understand. My stomach dropped. He proceeded to tell me how he had been looking into polyamorous relationships and he wanted us to be in one. I asked him question after question in a desperate attempt to understand where this was coming from and why this was happening. Was it just a sexual fantasy? Something that could only be fulfilled by another woman? Did he just want to be with someone new and not me altogether? He needed his “cups filled” as he so eloquently put it. I didn’t understand. He confirmed he wanted a full on relationship with someone else. To bring a third party into our home. By the end of the conversation I told him that I did not want that and that was not what I signed up for. That if that’s what he wanted then we would have to separate. He became frustrated by my answer and told me to forget about it. I told him I felt like there was something that he wasn’t telling me. Then he told me about the affair. An affair that apparently happened a whole year and a half prior (right before the trip we took with his family) . He hid it from me for that long and god only knows what else. I was beyond devestated. I felt like I died that day. He begged me to stay. Begged me to reconcile. After a short amount of time I agreed. Within the first week of our reconciliation, he told me that he had gone through his FB and deleted all the random girls. He was friends with so many because he just loves people he would say. He was very popular from being in so many bands as well. He said there was a girl who he had become good friends with. He said it was nothing inappropriate. She lived in our hometown that we had just moved from. We did have a lot of mutual friends with her as well. I told him I didn’t feel comfortable with it. She is a decade younger than him. Why was she having conversations with a married man? A couple of days later, she sent me a message on FB. She told me how he had told her how I felt uncomfortable. She apologized and talked about how she just had a lot of different friends and socialized with a lot of different people. I chalked it up to her just being young and dumb. Over the next couple of months, she began reaching out to talk to me more. I opened up to her and told her how my husband and I were in a reconciliation phase. I told her about my pain and healing. I told her about my insecurities he had caused. She told me about her dreams to move away. She told me about her boyfriend, we’ll call him “John” for the sake of the story. She complained how he was allegedly terrible to her. Then one day she called and said that she had broken up with John and she had moved out. My husband said we should fly her out to our home. He said we should let her stay with us for the weekend. To let her get her head straight and help her out. I told him no. I told him I was still struggling with healing and it wasn’t a good time. He told me that he wanted to help people and I was stopping him from doing that. After many arguments, he bought he a plane ticket without even asking. I felt sick. He clearly liked this girl. I started coming to the realization that I wanted a divorce. He was calling me crazy. He invalidating my feelings and healing process at every turn. I could barely eat or sleep. My health was affected in every way. It still feels like a fever dream. The next thing I knew, she was at our house. I have to summarize the rest because it’s still too difficult to talk about. But basically I ended up kicking them both out of the house and I told him I wanted a divorce. The next thing I knew, he had bought a camper and moved her up to our new residential state. I finally started listening to my intuition. When I found out he was moving her up and that they had gotten together, I decided to call her ex boyfriend, John. She had broken up with him only a few days before she had come to our house. I knew something wasn’t right. To summarize, after hours of talking between John, a mutual friend, and I, we had pieced together the truth. My ex husband had been flying her out on his work trips for the past year (that we know of) and they had been sleeping together. So the entire time she was reaching out to me to befriend me, she had already been sleeping with my husband for over a year. And to make it worse she was an addict. I felt myself break all over again. The last year since then, has consisted of a lengthy and drawn out (by him) divorce battle. I ended up finding out about at least 2 other psychical affairs. A friend reached out to me and told me how he had been inappropriate with another friend and made them uncomfortable. The rest of the divorce process is a different story. Maybe for another time. For now it is over and I do not regret how hard I fought to end it or to keep my son safe from an addict and psycholocally abusive mistress. I will never regret all of the work, tears, and begging that I did just to try and get the people that say they loved me and my son to keep someone like that out of our lives. I will never understand how they had the audacity to tell me they didn’t think she was dangerous to be around my son after they saw so much physical evidence with their own eyes. It physically makes me feel sick. They watched as their son called me crazy. Only to find out I was right all along. They watched as he bought a camper for him and his mistress before I had even filed for divorce. They watched as he continued to test me with hate and animosity and then used my traumatized reactions against me. I begged them through tears, pain, and yelling to do more. I begged for them to advocate for my son and I both. I begged them to stand up for us and tell their son what he was doing was wrong and to stop. I begged for them to help me end a divorce that I didn’t ask for. My ex feels justified in what he did to me though. He literally told me “we’re not divorced because I cheated. We’re divorced because we fought all the time and weren’t right for each other”. All the fights about how he was cheating and never around/helping me raise our son. I didn’t drive him to cheat, abuse, and destroy me. These weren’t mistakes that he made, these were decisions that he made and carried out for a very long time. These were intentional. He gave no room for healing with his continued hatefulness towards me. And he and his family used my traumatized reactions as his excuse for squirming out of any and all accountability. Every action he has taken since I filed for divorce has been only to discredit me and make himself feel justified. It’s easier for them to make me the scapegoat than for them to show shame or accountability. They bond over denial and hide in each other’s shadows. I still have a lot of shame and regret that I am working on healing through for trusting and believing in these people. It is a long hard process. The pain is lifelong. But I am thankful that now I know. Now I know what love DOESNT look like. I know what integrity DOESNT look like. I take responsibility in the fact that I should have left long ago and I put up with too much. I am responsible for losing myself the way that I did. I know that I did what I thought was right in my heart and I loved my ex as I promised I would when we made the commitment of marriage to each other. I worked hard to keep my family together but the reality is sometimes unity is not the healthiest or safest option. I stayed because I truly believed things would get better. That he would get better. That he would finally choose us. But the lesson kept repeating itself until I learned that I was wrong and I needed to let go in order to live a happy and healthy life for my son and I. I have learned so much and I hope that I can pass these lessons on. I hope that I can help even just one person not go through what I went through. And I’m hopeful that the lessons I continue to learn throughout this process will help light the way to a road of health, healing, and safety. I now feel safe to speak up and tell my story after so many years of silence and brokenness. I’m thankful to come home to a house that is no longer filled with hate and selfishness. Thankful that I don’t have to walk on egg shells everyday. I can create my own peace now.

I am a victim of domestic violence. 4 out of the 5 relationships I was in through high school til I was about 24, every last one of them was emotional/mental abuse. I would get called names, like dumb ass or stupid. They would look at me in disgust because of what I looked like. I got sent to the hospital one year because I wanted to be skinny by not eating all day. One of my exes would’ve grabbed my stomach and laughed because I had extra weight than he did. Another ex would argue with me over something stupid. He wouldn’t let me hang out with friends. I was single for four years because I didn’t want to feel that pain again. But when I read It Ends with Us, and saw the movie, I was brought to tears because I felt that pain back. There is a happy ending though. My current relationship now, he is the light of my life, he treats me like a queen, he treats me the way someone is supposed to be treated. I never want to go back there again.

In the summer of 1985 I was 18yrs old and had just graduated high school and was headed to college in the fall. I was dating a guy and we were very much in love. Another guy I had dated briefly months before who broke it off with me, (he was 23) was throwing a party for Live Aid at his mom's house where he lived also. My boyfriend was working until 11:30pm so I went over about 9p to hang out with everyone until he arrived. The guy was making margaritas or daiquiris and I had a few. I was sitting in a chair watching TV and everyone else was in another room. The next thing I remember was waking up with the guy having sex with me. At that moment my boyfriend is coming down the hall calling my name. I call back to him and the guy gets up and dressed and ran out to my boyfriend. My boyfriend came into the room and dressed me and carried me out. I couldn't walk. After my boyfriend took me home and put me on my bed he went back to the house to do some damage to the guy but he was met at the door by the guy and his buddies and told my boyfriend that I "was chasing him all over the house naked and begging for him to have sex with me". My boyfriend believed it and it slowly destroyed our relationship and my life forever.

My story was 24 years(18-42) of abuse. I was controlled by my narcissist same sex Ex. She was super controlling. I wasn't allowed to have friends or to wear jeans or pants.. Everything was always my fault and I had to earn her forgiveness. All this time het older brother started by raping and sexually abusing me Then he started human trafficking me. First it was to get into BDSM gatherings and then when he lost his job it was for money for him. I wss kept in place by threats against my now Ex and her son who was 4 when it started. I got out December 2012.. I was taking taxis because my ex had hurt her leg and I wasn't allowed to drive or have a license.. I met my now husband that way. I don't know why but I felt a connection with him for some reason. The day that ended it all in my mind. Was I had to take s train to my then therapist. She mafe me take her brother with me and said I could only go to therapy if I did that. Ot was my taxi driver who picked us up and he loed to get senior rate and didn't tip. I went back out to settle the money and wound up talking to my now husband, Husband for like 45 minutes. Husband figured out who he was and didn't eant to leave me there. I wasn't ready yet. Eventually, I left amd left everything, but she had him there all the time and she wouldn't allow me to bring Husband. So my stuff wasn't worth it. I am out and safe now, but am still plaqued by flashbacks and memories. I have been without a therapist since right before Covid. My therapist went on a two month cruise and didn't set me up with anyone to see while she was gone. Thst is sll for now I don't want to say to much Survivor

I Say No More because there are too many of us living and struggle with our everyday lives because we are ashamed about what another person has done to us. Me for an example; my abuse was on and off throughout my childhood. The longest lasted 4 years. By me staying silent for so long, to I have PTSD, Emotional Disorder and Depression. I had to learn how to gain control of my life that I didn't know for the longest that I could. I'm taking it one step at a time. See those people may have took away my childhood but they couldn't take away my LOVE, JOY and now my PEACE away.

At the tender age of 9 I was molested by a family member. This went on for 3 years. When I did mention it to my immediate family I broke down and was admitted to the hospital for a period of 48 hours. I was truly saddened and really felt alone. I carried this burden on for over 20 something years where afterwards I befriended someone that physically abused me. I ignored the red flags and in order to keep my children safe I told the perpetrator that I will stay. He would hit me in the back of my head many times to this day I have a small protruding disc in the back of my skull. The last incident when I knew that I couldn't take anymore and that my children would be safe is when he tried to throw me down my stairs after straddling me while choking me. I prayed and I asked God for strength. This was in Date. I found the strength to heal, seek therapy and start my own nonprofit (Nonprofit name) which serves Women and Children of domestic violence with temporary shelter, counseling, and 10-week trauma sessions. I now know my Worth and I know that I am a Woman that matters.

I survived. I got out. You can too. Insidious and devious are the words I think of when I've wondered how I got trapped. My ex-spouse was so charming, everybody thought he was a great person and I did too. So much so that I decided to ignore the fact he raped me and chalked it up to us drinking. Then gradually as we dated and then married he tried to spin a web of control around me by being angry and violent when I would spend time with friends or go to the gym or go to the library to study. Telling me I was not allowed to go to the gym because there were men there. Being told I couldn't go to work events. Calling my work when I was working late and accusing me of having affairs, then being verbally and physically abusive. He was so successful at manipulating others even my dad, initially, didn't believe me when I told him about the monster and the horrible things I had endured. I finally told my dad what had been going on when he threatened to kill me and chased me with a baseball bat. I was able to get in my car and get away and called my dad crying and screaming. He thought I had lost my mind. Some of my friends also thought I had lost it, and told me oh he is so nice and scoffed when I said I was filing for divorce and a protective order. After the first two calls to the sheriff they believed me and were so kind, frequently driving by my house and making sure I was safe. There is power in being believed. There is strength in knowing that others have made it out both alive and eventually became whole. I still experience occasional flashbacks and certain situations will trigger my anxiety, but I am able to trust people again and no longer fear "being in trouble" if I spend time with friends. Even more, I have allowed myself to become emotionally vulnerable with other people again after all these years. That was a huge leap for me. And I genuinely feel like a good person again.

I met a guy in 2018 and we got together after my grandmother died. After seeing each other a couple of times, the physical altercations started. Why I let it happen and stayed, I really could not tell you. I made 3 police reports but they were all eventually dismissed. We eventually moved in together and had a son. I did love him and he took care of me (I'm a type 1 diabetic). He was very sweet and always told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world. BUT he was very jealous and possessive and whenever we fought, he usually put his hands on me. I got a black eye, bruised ribs, scratches, bruises, a busted lip, a chipped tooth and many scars. In 2023, he passed away from a drug overdose. I was very sad but also I felt like I was now free. That sounds so awful but I didn't have to worry anymore about going somewhere he didn't want me to or talking to someone he didn't want me to or just doing anything he didn't want me to. Again, why did I stay? I did truly love him and other than that, I don't know.

For years, I thought I had escaped the horrors of my childhood. My father’s overt abuse was a storm—loud, angry, impossible to ignore. So when I met him—the man who seemed so different—I thought I had finally found safety. He wasn’t my father. He didn’t yell or scream or raise a hand every other day. At first, he was kind, charming even. I thought everything was great. But over time, the cracks started to show. The cold, distant days where I felt like an inconvenience. The subtle digs and underhanded comments that weren’t enough to call mistreatment but were just enough to make me doubt myself. I’d lie awake at night, crying, unable to understand why I felt so anxious and stressed. I told myself it wasn’t that bad. After all, he wasn’t my father. Yet, deep down, I knew. I knew he could hurt me if I ever pushed too far, and that fear controlled me. As the years passed, the emotional manipulation evolved into something far darker. What started as control turned into sexual abuse. At first, I didn’t see it for what it was—maybe I didn’t want to see it. I clung to the idea that things would get better, that I could fix it, that it wasn’t as bad as it felt. But the progression was undeniable. I couldn’t look away anymore. By the time it ended, I found myself at a police station, hoping for justice, for someone to finally stand up for me. But nothing was done. Nothing. I left that station with no real resolution, but I did leave. That was the day I decided to start over. Healing wasn’t immediate. It’s still day by day. But now I get to choose what my days look like. I am no longer silent. I am no longer hiding. The mask I wore for years is gone, and I speak openly about what I endured, not because it’s easy, but because someone needs to hear it. Someone out there needs to know that they’re not alone, that their perfect-looking marriage may not be so perfect, and that they deserve better. I poured my story into a book, Book Title. It’s not just a story about abuse; it’s a call to recognize the subtle signs, to question the system that so often fails victims, and to challenge the way society dismisses our pain. I know how hard it is to rise, but I also know it’s possible. If you’re in that darkness, know this: you can rise too. Healing isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. And every day, you have the power to choose a better life. Because still, I rise. And so can you.

I was 6 the first time I was raped. It went on for nearly a decade. The worst thing about incest Is there access that the perpetrator has to you. You can’t escape and so you are always living in terror. When I was 7, I was gang raped by a group of teenage boys. It was incredibly violent and terrifying. I remember sitting outside after I finally got myself untied. I was afraid to go home because I didn’t want my abuser to find out that his “property” has been used by someone else, but I couldn’t think of a single person to go to, so I didn’t tell anyone for another 30 years. At 8, I was molested by a neighbor. During these outside abuses, I was still being raped at home. That ended when I was 13. The next 3 years were some of my happiest years. I was finally not being abused! During that time, the PTSD caused me to develop a heart condition and an eating disorder but I felt free! That all changed when I was 16 and met my first boyfriend. He began sexually abusing me a few months into our relationship. He left on an LDS mission and spent the mission stalking me from a distance. I started dating another boy who was emotionally abusive. The next boyfriend would slap me and tell me how stupid I was. I just couldn’t get it right. Then I met my husband. I married him when I was 19 years old. He is kind and gentle with me and I felt like I had finally found safety… Then his brother started sexual harassing me. This happened for years. Eventually, he sexually assaulted me. I told my husband everyone it would happen. He never did anything to help me. I had been seeing my therapist for 13 years when he started acting flirtatious. He was getting a divorce from his wife who I later found out was a patient of his. I got out of that situation quick. I was in my 30s, attending graduate school to become a therapist when the next sexual assault happened. It was a family friend in his 60s. He told me one day that he was very sick and wanted me to stop by. I went to his house to check in and he locked me in his room and sexually assaulted me. Afterward, he threatened me with a lawsuit and threatened my husband’s career, as he knew my husband’s boss. I was so scared and felt like I needed a week of school to pull myself back together. I explained to my professors what had happened. One of them forwarded my email to the administration of the college who then tried to force me out. They told me: “since you got assaulted, we can no longer support you in our program.” Just a reminder, this was a graduate program to become a therapist! It was disguising that they would try to through me out, blaming me for the assault! When I tried to push back on their actions, they threatened me with layers from the university. In the end, I won and became a therapist. At this pointing in my life, I had experienced so much abuse, rape, violence, and trauma but I had held it together, becoming a mom, earning 3 college degrees, working many jobs and helping my husband run a business were started in the side. I didn’t realize that everything I had been through was going to hit me like a freight train. I was worrying at a hospital as a therapist, co-facilitating an IOP group when one of my clients decided they were going to kill me, the other clients in the group and themselves by committing a mass shooting. This client told someone of their plans and we were warned the morning it was to happen. I was forced by hospital administrators and police to stay in the office where the person would be coming for 2 hours. The person was located by SWAT a few blocks from the hospital with a stock pile of weapons. I kind of snapped after that. My body started giving out. My mental health issues got a lot worse. I could no longer function. I started seeing another therapist. She was so kind and loving toward me. I adored her and felt like I was starting to heal some of the wounds that had been festering for decades. She was the one to initiate physical contact. I’ve been afraid of being touched most of my life so when she started touching me, it was scary. It was very innocent, hugs or a pat on the arm. It started to feel reassuring and comforting. Then she started getting angry at me. I would mention texting a friend she didn’t want me talking to or talk about wanting to change my hairstyle. She would berate me for the rest of the session, making me feel like I was bad for saying the wrong thing. Then she would lovebomb me sitting the next session. It was intoxicating. This went on for years. It got to the point where she was always touching me. She would touch me even when I didn’t want her to touch me. It was incredibly inappropriate! When she would get mad at me, which was often, she would demand that I apologize profusely. She owned me. She broke me down to nothing. She isolated me from friends and family. I was so depressed and anxious and confused. I believed her, that I was trash. Last year, I became very sick and when I told her I would be going to a clinic to get help, she lost it. Filled with jealous rage, she lashed out at me. Something in me found the strength to walk away. It was one year ago this month that I saw her last. I feel as I am nothing. I currently am mostly bed bound, unable to leave the safety of my room, unable to interact with other humans, completely terrified to live a meaningful life. I am so scared. I wish I could say that I found my way and am healing but the truth is, I’ve experienced too much. I don’t know that I’m ever find myself again. Some wounds are too deep to heal. My body is falling apart. My mind is obliterated. I don’t know if there is hope. Thank you for reading my story. It means more to me than I can ever express.

Was it really that bad? Healing after getting out can be a rollercoaster of emotions and self doubt. You're not alone, sharing your story helps others to stop being silenced out of shame. Sometimes the healing process is hard because we remember more, or feel what we tried not to feel. You don't have to worry about being believable, focus on your own healing journey because you lived it, and need to trust the process. Your story, and what you lived, is testimony enough.

A SURVIVING VICTIM’S STORY - Name I was four years old when upon hearing my parents’ raised voices, I peered around our living room corner, a silent spectator to my dad’s hand connecting with my mom’s face, propelling her into the air and onto our Danish Modern coffee table. Upon impact, the table and my petite mother broke into pieces. That night, my fix-it father repaired the table. I didn’t know it then, but my mother was forever broken. Although my older brother didn’t witness this one-sided match-up, he certainly heard them arguing, followed by the hit, my mom’s screams and the crash. My dad left her atop the tabletop bits, crying, as black mascara streamed down her face. Not knowing what to do and afraid to say a word, I ran to my room. Minutes later, she appeared in my doorway, her watery, reddened eyes framed by expertly reapplied Maybelline lashes and her mouth gleamed in my dad’s favorite color, the deep red of Fire and Ice lipstick. As I reached for my teddy bear for comfort, she said, “Your dad’s a good man and he loves you very much. I’ll go make supper now.” That night, as always, the four of us ate at our kitchen table, the usual banter going around our Formica table as if nothing had happened which left me further confused about my mom and especially, my dad. Although I never saw my dad hit her again, when I noticed bruises dotting her pale arms, I felt compelled to ask, “What’s that?” “Nothing,” she’d say while pulling her sleeves down to cover the black and blue marks, “Your father is a good man and he loves you very much.” My dad ruled our roost, a charcoal gray, Cape Cod style suburban house while my mom stayed home, cooking, cleaning and raising us while he worked fulltime. At the reins of our home and finances, my dad had everything he forbid my mom to have- a job, credit cards, a car, access to bank accounts and friends. The world was his and his was ours. He brought home the groceries, my mom cooked whatever he chose and we ate it. Having graduated from high school, I left home to attend college, happy to leave behind what I’d once witnessed that Sunday afternoon and my high school classmates bullying taunts of “Ugly Dog!” Despite starting my life anew, my insecurities about my looks followed me halfway across the country. As one of 25,000 students, I embraced my classes, and the firsts of a part-time job and bank account as well as a tall, blonde, muscular, blue-eyed student I’d met in my freshman year. Although he said I was pretty, I didn’t believe him since I’d discovered my high school classmates’ derogatory taunts about my looks had accompanied me to university, echoing in my head. We began dating and I felt fortunately honored that someone so handsome would deign to be with someone unattractive but apparently, opposites do attract. And there was a bonus- this brawny farm boy was the physical light to the dark features of my dad and, my dad liked him. Our dates were filled with flirting, making out and his physicality which I first felt in a campus town bar. During happy hour, accompanied by my brother and my roommate who sat across from us, we listened to music, laughed and chatted about nothing in particular. Suddenly, I felt his outstretched hand on my face. The intensity of his powerful palm sent me off my barstool and onto the sticky, beer-soaked floor. Pulling myself by the bar edge, I wobbled to the ladies’ room and wiped away my tear-soaked, dripping makeup before returning to him and our silent witnesses, an undaunted trio deep in collegiate chitchat. Although I continue feeling the force of his hand on my face long after graduation, I had long since begun to believe that my golden-haired boy loved me, just as he said. I’d been in love with him since first sight so I accepted his marriage proposal. My dad, still his biggest fan, was our happiest wedding guest who, despite his frugality had footed the bill for it all, including the white taffeta, crinoline princess wedding dress I’d always dreamed of. Returning home from our City honeymoon, his unpredictable physical outbursts continued. In time, he added something new, sexual assault, ignoring my begging and screaming to stop. Although his physical actions always occurred randomly, he began giving me a warning- the cracking of his knuckles. I was unprepared the first time but I was ready for the next time when I heard the snap. Although I braced myself for the hit, he caught me off guard by wrapping his hands around my neck, choking me before lifting me up with ease, slamming my head into the wall or whatever structure was nearest before releasing his grip, my body sliding down until I landed on the floor. As with his slaps to my face, his hands around my throat left no visible bruises and so, I kept quiet, returning to the reliable comforts of cooking dinner, watching television, playing board games, dog walking and sex. Each Sunday afternoon, I placed a call to my parents. My dad always answered the phone first, ready to update me with the latest goings on before the hand-off to my mom. Our chats were brief, mostly about a buffet they went to or how my job was going yet each one included an unprompted passage from her well-worn script, with one tweak, “Your husband’s a good man and he loves you very much.” On a weekday off from work, I was cleaning our apartment as a daytime tv talk show played in the background. When I heard domestic violence survivors detailing their experiences which echoed mine, I put my dust rag down and approached the screen. Tears rolled down their faces as these victims of abuse admitted fearing for their lives and those of their children. For the first time, I saw before me, myself and my mom. When the show’s end credits froze on a DV hotline number, I grabbed a pencil, scribbled the number on a notepad, tore out that page and stuffed it down deep into my datebook. While I’d felt compelled to write it down, I also wanted to keep it out of my own view, which I did. But, I could not unsee the images of those frightened women, one of whom was my mom’s doppelgänger. Transported back to that memorable Sunday afternoon of my childhood, I heard my mom’s screams, followed by the table breaking apart. Many months after that show aired, during a quiet evening at home, I heard the cracking of knuckles, followed by my husband’s hands around my throat. But this time, he held it tighter than ever before. When he finally let go, I fell to the floor, choking and sputtering as I grasped for air. He stood over me shouting, “Go ahead, call the police, they won’t do anything to me! They’ll know as I do that, you’re crazy and haul your lying ass out of here! Go ahead, do it!” He threw the phone at me; it bounced off my shoulder and onto the floor where it and I remained until he turned and headed to bed. At work the next day, I reached into my handbag, pulled out my datebook, unfolded the scrap of paper. Squinting to read the now faded and barely legible phone number, I dialed. I didn’t know it then but those ten digits would save my life. The hotline referred me to a local battered women’s shelter where I could obtain help. As soon as I sat down in the counselor’s office, the floodgates opened. I detailed my husband’s hobby while simultaneously defending his actions since unlike my dad’s maneuvers, my husband’s handiwork left no telltale signs, save for two occasions, one when he hit me in the face with a wooden hanger and another when he pushed me down onto the floor and my face connected with the rug, leaving burn marks. “And,” I proudly added, “He’s definitely not like my dad. My husband is not controlling, jealous or possessive and, I’m nothing like my mom. I’m independent, I have my own car, college degree, career and, I come and go as I please. Plus, I handle all of our finances.” Upon hearing my words, I heard my truth. Within a few sessions, I understood that abuse is never permissible. Whether it leaves visible bruises, broken bones, or furniture, it’s abuse. Similarly, even if you’re married, sexual assault is a violent, abusive act. I also learned that domestic violence does not always follow a formula. It doesn’t have to be preceded by a tension building phase nor followed by an apology be it flowers, candy or my husband’s blame-filled, singular expression of regret after viciously pulling hair from my head, “I’m sorry you made me do that.” With each counseling session, as I grew confident, I also became guilt-ridden as I was better off than the shelter residents with children who didn’t have the resources afforded me. My husband wasn’t jealous or controlling so I had freedom, finances and more. I felt I was stealing help that others needed much more than I. It was then my therapist reminded me of the many abuses I’d endured, the very ones which led to me calling the hotline. She explained that not all abusers look and act alike, nor do their victims. In domestic violence and sexual assault, one size does not fit all. The only thing it has in common is that it’s wrong. With my counselor’s encouragement, I confided my truth to a kind coworker who responded with acceptance, a comforting hug and the words I’d longed for, “I’m here for you.” As I thanked him between sobs, he added, “You need to leave him. What are you waiting for?” With a slight smile, I replied, “I’m waiting for the flowers and candy.” At work the next day, he handed me a chocolate rose. “Here’s your goddamn flowers and candy. Now leave the bastard! Go far away from him, from here. You’ll start over, you’ll be fine, you’ll be so much better.” With his support, I heeded his advice and applied for jobs 1,000 miles away. After scheduling and attending interviews, I accepted an offer for a fabulous opportunity in the state of my childhood, which I half-jokingly referred to as ‘the scene of the original crime.’ Although my husband expressed his unhappiness with my decision to leave, during a fleeting moment of truth, he said that while I was trying out my wings, he would attend counseling so that we could start anew, peacefully. He was so accommodating, even offering to split the long drive with me and not yet one-hundred percent confident I could go it alone, I accepted. Our trip was surprisingly calm until he set down the first box in my attic apartment and gave me a verbal housewarming gift, “I can’t believe you’re leaving me for this dump.” That night, I breathed a sigh of relief when I dropped him at the airport. Starting over in a house of strangers was difficult so, I returned, partially, to the familiar, speaking with my husband each night. In almost every call, he slammed me, “You might as well come back now, we all know you will and you know I love you.” The more he said that, the more he reinforced that I’d made the right decision. With my job going well, I decided to celebrate my thirtieth birthday in Country with a college friend. Upon my return, a gift awaited me, divorce papers, sans gift receipt, wrapping paper, ribbon or sufficient postage. Accepting my fate, I paid forty-one cents for the package. The return on my investment was indeed enriching as I reveled in knowing that I would be forever free from his abuse. With the finalization of our divorce, I returned to school, landed a position as a designer, purchased a condo and volunteered at a local battered women’s shelter. I was safe and happy but something was missing. To find that puzzle piece, I signed up for online dating which led me to a charming, talented man who, like me, was creative, wore his heart on his sleeve and had witnessed violence in his childhood home. He too was divorced and tearfully told of his marriage ending in infidelity, a vow-breaking act we agreed we’d never engage in. The cherry on top was his empathetic response to my past for prior to our meeting, he’d served on the board of directors for his local battered women’s shelter. For the first time, I had a mutually supportive, loving relationship. On a long City 2weekend, he proposed and joyfully, I said yes! Returning to City 3, we renovated a condo and began planning our wedding. Combining our two households, we didn’t need wedding gifts so, instead, we included donation slips to the National Domestic Violence Hotline with each invite. With only four months until our New Year’s Eve wedding and knee-deep in preparations, I noticed my vision decreasing. I booked an appointment with my ophthalmologist who did some tests, followed by a few whispers to his assistant who then handed me orders for tests. Two days later, with my fiancé by my side, I was diagnosed with a massive, facially disfiguring brain tumor which had already robbed me of the vision in one eye. So busy with renovations and planning our future, we hadn’t noticed the tumor pushing my eye forward. I underwent eleven hours of life-saving, emergency brain and reconstructive facial surgery. My fiancé stayed with me throughout my ten-day hospital stay and accompanied me to all post-op appointments and tests. Since the tumor had compromised my sight, I was had severe balance impairment but, I had my future husband’s physical support, helping me each step of the way as, for the first time, I was reliant upon a cane. We had survived a tumor and its surgery which could’ve left me totally blind, paralyzed or dead. Gratefully optimistic, we continued with our wedding plans. The light at the end of our tunnel darkened again when a routine medical appointment for his type 1 diabetes resulted in a leukemia diagnosis. Fortunately, he didn’t yet require treatment so once more, we maintained our scheduled plans. Our wedding was a joyous celebration of love and survival. As I was still recovering from surgery, we chose a quiet, beach honeymoon in Country 2after which we returned to our newly renovated City 4 loft. We enjoyed our creative, professional endeavors, free time together roaming the city, surprising each other with gifts of trips and jewelry while still making time for visiting friends and families. Additionally, we continued volunteering, with him serving on the board of directors for a children’s charity while I had the honor of speaking on behalf of the NDVH. Soon after, I underwent extensive training and earned my advocacy certificate which enabled me to volunteer in twoState hospital ED’s, providing support and resources to female victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. Ours was a mutually gratifying and rewarding marriage, one which our friends routinely admitted envying. We had everything anyone could wish for as well as something no one wanted. A routine MRI revealed residual brain tumor growth. After weeks of radiation, I suffered from relentless side effects of memory loss, fatigue and insomnia, all of which negatively affected my ability to work and volunteer. Instinctively, my husband knew that as a self-supporting individual, my new reality was difficult to accept but he also knew what needed to be said. “You work two days and you’re dead for five. It’s not healthy. You need to quit.” Cushioning the blow, he added, “We’ll be fine, you’ll be better, healthier and, we have more than enough money. As I always say, ‘worry is waste,’ so please, no worries. Most importantly, we have each other.” Reluctantly, I admitted that he was right and together we admitted that I was, unfortunately, permanently disabled. After leaving my job, I stayed home, writing personal essays and working out when able. I detested admitting that I was disabled but I did suggest I file for benefits. He responded by hugging me and saying once more, “No need, we have more than enough money.” The next day, on his way to work, he phoned. “Jot this realtor’s number down. It’s a gorgeous house in East Hampton!” That weekend, we drove to City 5 and began house-hunting. Within six months, we purchased a gleaming glass ranch with pool and tennis. We alternated our time between City 4 and City 5. With that property purchase and my not having lived in my condo for more than two years, we sold it and used the profits for the downpayment on, as he suggested we buy a home for my parents, as he’d done for his former mother-in-law during his first marriage. My mom and dad adored their new, State 2 townhouse. While planning a romantic anniversary trip, my personal essay chronicling my journey from brain tumor diagnosis to idyllic wedding was published. We flew to the Island as planned, where we lazed in the sun and splashed in the sea. But our return home was not what we’d planned as he began experiencing rapid onset fatigue. While he’d already scheduled a party to celebrate my writing achievement, given his declining health, I requested he cancel the event but he refused. The celebration was wonderful and guests called the next day with thanks, followed by questions about his health. We had yet to tell anyone about his leukemia since we didn’t want family and friends to worry as they’d already done so during my surgery and radiation. And, perhaps we didn’t want to worry ourselves either. When a visit to his hematologist revealed our latest reality, we scheduled chemotherapy. As we’d done with my tumor and its regrowth, we handled his treatments with mutual optimism, support and encouragement until, the unexpected occurred. Overnight, he morphed into someone I didn’t recognize. He began making rash, unilateral decisions which included selling our loft, recently purchased house and, him having placed an offer on a coop in City 4 toniest neighborhood. Despite his inconsistency, what remained the same were his morning love notes. However, his afternoon phone calls just to hear my voice became vitriol-filled rants about nothing in particular. Each night he’d return home from work, greeting me as he’d always done, with a kiss and a hug. But each time I brought up his ever-changing behavior, he refused to talk about it, claiming that everything was fine. Seeing me suffer emotionally, he booked a marriage counseling session. Making progress in therapy, we returned to our walks in Park, movies, travel, board games and lovemaking. We marked the end of his treatments with a celebratory trip to City 6where he surprised me with a Tiffany necklace. Our nights were spent enjoying romantic dinners, playful flirting at clubs as we listened live music and making passionate love. We spent our days sightseeing, shopping and taking long beach walks. Although we were close, we were simultaneously miles apart, even when in the same hotel room. As we’d both agreed to follow our marriage counselor’s advice to address such situations immediately, I brought up that he seemed to be distancing himself from me but I was cut off with, “I promised to never do that again and I won’t.” The remainder of our getaway was hot and cold as he launched into angry outbursts followed by declarations of love for me. Confused and unsteady, physically and emotionally, I thought he was gaslighting me but the man who stood by me before, during and after my brain tumor diagnosis, disfigurement, surgery and radiation, who intimately knew the depths of my memory loss, who had long advocated for DV victims, would never engage in such cruelty. While packing for our return flight, I flashed back to my ex-husband’s singular apology. Maybe I was making ‘him’ do this. Our flight home was pleasantly uneventful until his severe emotional turbulence resulted in a bumpy landing which continued long after we deplaned. He abruptly quit the job he loved, formed a new corporation and sent a scathing rage-filled, accusatory letter to his amicably divorced ex-wife, assassinating her character with worded weapons of war. He proudly requested I read the letter only to ignore my opinion about its contents and advising he not mail it. At our next counseling session, I planned to discuss his most recent, hasty decisions but he took the lead, pointing at me while yelling, “You’re a fucking evil bitch!” His face was contorted with hate as he stood up and stormed out of the room. Before I could apologize to our therapist, he returned for an encore, reprising his offensive script and slamming the door on his way out. As I slunk down in my seat embarrassed, our therapist said, “Did you see my hand on the phone?” “No. I was so humiliated that I didn’t notice anything other than his stomps of shame out your door, although it’s doubtful he feels shame or anything anymore. I’m just so embarrassed.” She responded, “You did nothing wrong. He did. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was going to call 911.” I trembled throughout the taxi ride home, alone. He met me at the door, apologizing and begging for my forgiveness. Wanting to keep at least a semblance of peace, I forgave him. The next day, I awoke to a love note followed by his loving phone calls throughout the day. Later that afternoon, he emailed me my boarding pass for his upcoming business trip which we’d excitedly planned. Moments later, he messaged that I will not be accompanying him to City 6. He needed time alone and requested that we have no calls, texts or emails during his absence. I was crushed. Since our first date, we’d never gone a day without contact. Not wanting the remaining apples to spill out of what was left in our marital cart, I acquiesced. The day after his departure, I phoned JetBlue to obtain the credit for my unused ticket and the agent was most accommodating. He told me that since my ticket had been reassigned to someone else, he couldn’t provide a credit. Next, he voluntarily provided the name of my husband’s seatmate, unwanted information which led to me reviewing our credit card statements and phone bills. Before me were pages upon pages of his activities- hotel charges, phone calls and texts, many of which occurred before, during and after our City 5 getaway. Facebook confirmed their friendship. She was married, with children. Per his wishes, I didn’t contact him during his trip but I did phone when, long after his flight landed, he hadn’t returned home. “Where are you?” “I’m at the office, catching up on what I missed while away. I’ll stay here tonight and get it all done.” Desperate to talk with him and hopefully discuss my inadvertent discoveries in person, I pressed him to have dinner with me at a local restaurant. Eventually, he agreed. Over dessert, I casually said her name. He rapidly responded, “I have no idea who she is.” It was then that I pulled out my confidence-building handbag of truth and set the proof on the table. With a reddened face, he said, “I don’t know her; I’ve never spoken with her. It’s all a mistake. JetBlue, The Hudson Hotel, AmEx, AT&T and Facebook are wrong. I’ll call them all tomorrow and straighten it all out.” I wished it was so but there was no denying what I knew to be true. The man who declared his unconditional love for me daily, my first-ever advocate I’d trusted with the life and death decisions of brain tumors, the man who in turn, trusted me with his cancer, both of us living in sickness and in health before marriage, and him, a longtime supporter of battered women and the NDVH, was lying. I was woozy on the short walk back home together. Once inside our apartment he shouted, “I’m not staying here with you. I’ll be in touch.” As he opened the door to leave, he saw my cane in the corner and said, “Sure, try to get sympathy with that thing. It won’t work.” After my tumor treatments, I worked hard at walking without assistance but sometimes, such as after coming home from an intense workout, he would see me wobble a bit and remind me to use my cane. When JetBlue derailed me with reality, I lost trust as well as my appetite and within days, I’d lost so much weight that I again relied on my cane for support. While I stood at the door sobbing, he again shouted his unfounded defense, “They’re all wrong! They’re wrong! I’ll fix it all! They’re wrong!” Thirty minutes after he slammed our door, I received an email, “I had a nice time at dinner.” Fifteen minutes later, another, “If I were going to fuck around 1) I’d be exceptionally discreet and 2) I wouldn’t. I am not permanently pissed, but this is a black mark for me, let’s see what we can do with it…” Then, another email in which he declared his forever love and deep regret. Anxious to see him the next afternoon at counseling to discuss this recent development, at least recent to me, I arrived early for our appointment. In the waiting room, I stared at the door for his arrival which didn’t come. Our therapist called my name, I went into her office and sat down without a word. While staring at the floor, she said, “He called. He’s not returning to therapy.” With this abrupt decision and his unusual choice of messenger, as soon as I was home, I called him to request a medical release form so that I could meet with his hematologist and discuss that perhaps his transformation might have resulted from his cancer or chemotherapy. He immediately faxed the signed form to his doctor, called me with an appointment date and a promise that he’d meet me there. That same week, I sat in another waiting room, staring at the door. Again, he didn’t show up. I walked back to the doctor’s office and after polite hello’s, I explained what had been going on. “Whatever it is, it’s temporary. You’re the happiest couple I know. Deeply in love, so supportive of each other, always together. Don’t worry, it’ll all work out.” I was further conflicted and yet comforted. I returned home to another email. “The money is safe. I am not taking it anywhere. Out of the country no. Hiding it away no. Please do not pressure me to do what will be done.” As I’d not mentioned money, I didn’t know what he was referring to. Logging into our joint bank account, I noted that for the first time since we were wed, he had not deposited his paycheck. He was gone and yet, not as he continually requested that I meet him at area restaurants, with his mail. Our get-togethers were cold but ever optimistic, I continued seeing him. He followed each meeting with emails such as, “I love you baby, xoxo me,” and, “You looked beautiful last night, as always.” I’d longed for those words which had been commonplace but were now rare and typically, followed by insults. And yet, each message gave me hope that he was right and what I knew to be true was wrong. After days of such ‘I love you’ emails, he began calling, wanting to discuss a formal separation agreement, informing me that we’re no longer married, that this is a business deal, that it took all his strength to walk out of our apartment and, he’d been unhappy since the day we met. His next email threatened that if I didn’t go along with what he termed, a mutual, determined separation agreement, it would negatively affect my future well-being and he’d file a summons for cruel and inhumane treatment. My days and nights were filled with more of his appetite suppressant messages. Nearly emaciated, I was too weak to exercise and stopped attending the dance classes I’d loved, the ones that he often enjoyed with me. Unable to hide my protruding bones with clothing, I was at a routine physical, when my doctor said, “You’ve lost all of your muscle! You have to start working out again.” I returned to the dance classes I’d loved. Within minutes, I was surrounded by my teacher and students who were greeting me with hugs and smiles before informing me that my husband began attending class with a woman he’d introduced as his girlfriend. The, they began showing up several times a week at what had been my regularly scheduled classes. My decision to attend other classes led to his increased calls and threats, followed by his notifying me that he moved uptown to get away from me. He had and yet he hadn’t for although he was in a different neighborhood, he continued parking across the street from our condo. After two months of uncomfortably bumping into him outside our building, I retained counsel. My husband, a board member for a battered women’s shelter long before we met, didn’t hide his detest for my ex having physically abused me. He also believed that my brain tumors resulted from my ex grabbing me by the throat, lifting me up and slamming my head into walls and his truck. And yet, he took a page from ex’s gift-giving registry although his package was delivered with no postage at all. I was running errands on my birthday when I heard a man calling my name. As I looked to see him, he glanced down at a stack of papers, the first of which I could see was a photo of me taken in happier times. Shoving bound papers at me, he said, “You’ve been served.” I wasn’t about to reach out and accept them so he dropped them on the ground. Laying before me on bustling Street sidewalk in the November wind lay twenty-three charges of cruel and inhumane treatment, lies which my husband later admitted to having invented. As we were childless, there would be no custody battle so I knew ours would be a quick divorce. About to leave for the first court date, my lawyer called to say that court was rescheduled since my husband was out of town. He was lazing in the Island 2 sun again but unlike our honeymoon, he had an entourage- his girlfriend, her two children, their grandmother and our money. His delay tactics became as routine as his continual, vindictive violations of the judge’s temporary support orders. Friends and colleagues who’d envied our marriage were shocked about the way he’d been treating me and his divorce filing since he’d always told them how much he loved me and how happy he was. And, reassuring me, his ex-wife said that what I’d witnessed for years was indeed true, he had dutifully paid her court ordered support without interruption or complaint so she knew he’d do the same with me when our divorce was finalized. Even his closest friends said as he had, he’d always take care of me. Post-trial, while awaiting the judge’s decision, I attended medical appointments and underwent routine tests, the last of which revealed another brain tumor, this one threatening my remaining vision. After another emergency brain surgery, I awoke in Neuro ICU but this time, temporarily blind, disfigured and alone. Not only had he long since abandoned me, the friends and family who’d been present and supportive after my first brain surgery followed his lead when I needed them most. I attempted to recover in peace but my valiant efforts were interrupted and delayed by realtors showing prospective buyers our apartment. This was the only court order he followed, the listing of our City 7 condo and City 5 house. The issue of our State 2 property was settled when I received my parents’ birthday package. Addressed in my dad’s controlled, cursive handwriting, I excitedly opened the box to find a unique gift, the garage door opener without card, wrap or ribbons. As with my friends who abandoned me when my husband had, my parents did the same while also abandoning the Florida townhouse. One phone call to the realtor who sold us the property revealed that they walked out the door, leaving it empty and me, hollow. With my husband aware of my recent brain surgery, his get-well gift came in the form of violating temporary court orders for my medical expenses. Struggling to see, undergoing two more surgeries to correct disfigurement, and rife with emotional and physical pain, my doctors wrote critically necessary prescriptions for physical therapy, a host of medications and home healthcare aides. But without receiving his court ordered support, I couldn’t afford all of my requisite care which led to my incurring further physical damage. Based on the voluminous medical evidence provided to the court, the judge accepted the fact of my disability. Immediately, I followed her order and applied for SSDI. Recognizing that I could not survive with SSDI benefits as my sole source of income, in her final judgment, my ex-husband was court ordered to pay spousal support, healthcare overage and maintain me as the sole beneficiary of his pension and life insurance policies. I began anew again but my second beginning started and stopped simultaneously with his continued court order violations. Necessarily, I returned to court with a lawyer and a contempt motion. Back in our trial judge’s courtroom, this hearing took only thirty minutes during which time she reviewed my evidence of accrued spousal support arrears and his cancellation of my health insurance. Again, the judge instructed him to follow all court orders and again, he said he would and again, he didn’t. Retaining another attorney, I filed a second contempt motion which was assigned to a different judge. At our first hearing, the judge informed him that continued violations could result in jail time. I didn’t want him locked up but as our original trial judge found, I couldn’t survive without him following all court orders. Rather than believe the judge’s not-so-veiled threat, his violations continued but with a new twist, of the pen. On the subject lines of his shorted and late support checks, he began writing emotionally abusive messages such as, ‘Blood Money,’ and his most-oft used favorite, ‘Fucking Evil Bitch.’ Then, he crumpled the checks into trash-like balls which he stuffed into envelopes. His heinous, illegal acts continued for four more years, enough time that the judge forgot the court order enforcement actions afforded her. With my finances rapidly dwindling, I could no longer afford legal representation and so, I became a fool, representing myself. This would be a bad choice for anyone, but especially for someone whose only legal education to that point had been the prior years in divorce court. Adding in my permanent neurological impairments which had long ago rendered me unable to work and support myself. Among them, brain inflammation, memory loss and nerve pain, all of which intensified. While struggling to file motions, organize legal documents and attend court, I endured cataclysmic catastrophes resulting in damage as massive as his intentionally cruel court order violations and those of a judge who repeatedly admitted not reviewing the case before her. A massive flood resulted in the loss of my belongings and my apartment, I received multiple diagnoses including- a third brain tumor, glaucoma, a chronic retina bleed in my only usable eye, cataracts requiring immediate surgery, an ovarian cyst and prior surgical scar tissue resulting in intractable pain, all while I struggled to continue representing myself in court. Meanwhile, in order to pay for critical medical treatment, tests, medications, surgeries and the necessity of shelter, I accrued credit card debt for the first time in my life. Although my renter’s insurance policy paid flood reimbursement monies, they were quickly dissipated on survival necessities of food, shelter, transportation to and from court, health insurance and more. When I thought I’d reached rock bottom, I began receiving harassing and often profane messages from inventive email addresses, including one from Email Address informing me that the happy couple had wed and were raising her children in what had been our City 8home. That message was followed with my next birthday gift, a dead plant with a florist’s gift tag on which he wrote, “I love you.” I consistently reported his damaging, harassing and abusive actions to the judge who responded while looking at him, “Stop doing that.” He responded to her affirmatively but instead, increased his vicious email attacks while also adding childish crank phone calls. Throughout our five years before this judge, she chose to ignore my factually, documented evidence of his non-stop court order violations which included a running total of his accumulated spousal support arrears just as she disregarded her long-ago promise of holding him accountable for his violations. Despite his courtroom confession with evidentiary backup that he violated the original court order by replacing me with his girlfriend as the beneficiary of his pension and life insurance policies, the judge turned a blind eye, tantamount to approving of this violation. Finally, the judge rendered her decision, one which disregarded my years of factual evidence proving his years ten years of continually violating court orders and substantiating that he was, far from his baseless claims of being flat out broke but rather, flush with more than enough to pay the full amount of support arrears which surpassed one quarter of a million dollars. Explaining her rationale for ignoring the rule of law, she said, “Given the Plaintiff’s comorbidities, she has less time left than he, so she won’t be needing the accumulated spousal support monies or any other benefits stipulated in the previously entered judgment of divorce. I sat there shocked that a State State Supreme Court judge had based a legal decision on her non-medical prediction of my imminent death. I walked away from the legal system, further battered and bruised with scars as invisible as those caused by my first husband’s sexual, emotional, physical and verbal abuse. Those painful wounds remain as unseen as my irreparable vision loss, ongoing brain tumor growths, radiation treatments, the abandonment of friends and family and those left behind by my second husband- financial and psychological abuse which combined, equal physical abuse for they left me further impaired as I’ve been unable to obtain and maintain shelter, medical treatment, medications and other survival necessities. Alone, in pain and in need, I embarrassingly became dependent upon the kindness of strangers, one who generously provided me with temporary shelter and food, keeping me alive when someone else died- my ex-husband. Apparently, our judge’s crystal ball was as cracked as the rule of law she chose to break. One year and five months after she rendered her decision and amended the original divorce judgment, he was gone. But I wasn’t. My health has steadily declined since I made my Love Connection with my second husband, after which he treated me to The Dating Game followed by The Newlywed Game. I believed I’d won the prize of his undying love, affection and support. But when he began playing his favorite boardgame, Malevolent Monopoly, I lost and continued losing since he declared himself the banker and real estate mogul, owning all of the properties and utilities. Throughout his illegal, unending game, he never went to jail directly or indirectly and I never collected $200.00 for passing go or the $250,000.00+ in accumulated spousal support. Left with not much more than questions as to the how and why this all happened, I played a game of my own- connect the dots. A single line connected each dot, forming a family tree with rotted roots and ancestrally infected branches. As a child, my mother witnessed her mom be physically, financially and emotionally abused by her husband which led to her marrying my dad for the safety and security she’d always desired, only to relive what her mother had and likewise, my mom did her best to ignore and hide her husband’s abuse. My brother chose to ignore the truth of my mom’s screams on that long-ago Sunday afternoon. Similarly, he chose to ignore the physical abuse he saw me endure at that campus town bar and my increasing impairments and substantial losses resulting from my second husband’s financial and psychological abuse. My dad was a good man and also, not. He loved me, my brother and my mom very much but ultimately, he loved her to death. As for my in-laws, after I paid forty-one cents to accept their son’s postage due divorce-papers, I learned that my first husband’s father had physically abused his mother, leading to her suffering two nervous breakdowns. When I told her how her son physically and emotionally abused me, she advised that I should’ve done as she had with husband and stop doing what bothered him. Upon meeting the man who would be my second husband, he volunteered his truth of being betrayed by his spouse during their marriage. A year later, he detailed the domestic violence perpetrated by his mother. During his childhood, his mom prepared his brother a sandwich with a unique condiment, broken glass. Additionally, she often engaged in psychologically abusing him and her husband with her favorite weapon, gaslighting, which only ended when she was institutionalized. I am living proof that as with disability and destitution, domestic violence doesn’t have to be visible to exist yet few believe my truth of living those traumas. Rather than hear an empathetic word, most often I’m told, “You don’t look disabled, abused, or homeless.” Over time, I’ve learned that there exists a pervasive, preconceived image of what a disabled, impoverished victim turned survivor of domestic violence looks like and unfortunately, that image is typically wrong. Not all tragedies are visible. Not all living below poverty level live on the streets, not all disabled are nonsensical and mangled and, not all victims of domestic violence have broken bones, black eyes or bruises. Anyone can experience what I have as well as additional challenges, be they rich, middle class or poor. Domestic violence can happen anywhere, on a Midwest farm, a State 2 beach, a bustling city or the peaceful quiet of the City 8, just as it did with me. Likewise, abusers, victims and survivors of domestic violence come from everywhere and anywhere, as in my case, the East Coast, New England and the Midwest. Abusers look like everyone, in packages of various sizes and shapes, in gift bags or boxes, decorated in ribbons and bows or with no finery whatsoever. Specifically, seen or unseen, happening to anyone, anywhere and at any time, domestic violence is always wrong and all too often, it’s dead wrong. However, what is right remains the same- victims of domestic violence and sexual assault need to be heard, supported and believed rather than silenced, ignored and doubted. Being believed provides life-saving healing, validation, encouragement, comfort and hope. Rather than continuing to prove who I am to those disbelieving my truth, I am content in knowing who I am and with that, I validate, encourage, support and comfort myself as well as others for judging a book by its cover leads only to tattered pages, broken bindings and torn, broken people. Fortunately, I have found permanent glue and hope but tragically, too many do not.

We lost our family dog to domestic violence. Yes family, because he’s family to us. After that our abuser drained every single account, sold things, hid things, stalked us, and more. Then he left both me, and our child homeless and struggling a lot. What followed was zero help, and support from the police, DA, DV Unit, and the judges. In my wildest dreams I never imagined that nobody would help us. We spent 7 years waiting to get housed, and each day I think are they going to kick us out today, and will we have to sleep in our car again. Understandably that’s an extremely uneasy feeling, not to mention the toll all of these things have taken on our mental health. Yet another thing that isn’t taken seriously enough. Besides all of the abuse, including the post separation abuse, there’s coercive control, and our judicial system needs to acknowledge, and do something about this too. As parents we want to protect our children, but we can’t do that without help from our Congress. We can no longer rely on our individual states to properly help us. We need a nationwide Act that protects all victims of abuse, but this will not work unless there’s accountability. It must be required to be enforced this. We need a Serious Crime Act. I strongly believe that if the United Kingdom can enact this so can we. The day that I had to tell our child that her own dad abused, and killed her dog is something I will never forget. Everyone situation is different, but the one thing we have in common is we’ve experienced abuse. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, especially not on children.

When I was 16, I was attacked by a mutual friend. Duct taped and tied to the bed, I've never felt so scared. I just froze and I hated myself for a long time because I always thought it was my fault and I should've protected myself. I later learned that freezing is a natural trauma response. He raped me, I didn't ask for that, no one does. I couldn't speak about it to anyone because no one would listen, everyone just thought I was making it up. It took a long time and lots of therapy to be where I am today. 8 years later, I found my people and am thriving. If it weren't for the other survivors around me, I wouldn't be here today.

Three beautiful kids later, three houses later, and 10 years later, I finally had the courage to leave.

My name is (Name) and this is my story. I have been abused for most of my life from childhood, well into my adult years. I never knew what gaslighting was or love bombing and other terms until I got older and realized what was happening. My mother did that for soo long it was all I knew and I thought it was “normal.” When I was 18 I started a relationship with someone and it was off and on and then we lost contact and then when I was 21 we came back into contact. He won me in the beginning with his charm and sense of humor. Little did I know I was slowly being manipulated, love bombed, controlled and lots of gaslighting. I made a trip to go visit him and I was only supposed to be there a week and I ended up staying. In the beginning everything seemed fine even though he had already cheated on me (red flag) but for some reason I overlooked it and continued the relationship. Over time he became more and more controlling. Starting off with what I could or couldn’t wear, how my hair and makeup were supposed to be done. Then it turned into I couldn’t go anywhere unless I was with him. I wasn’t allowed to have friends, money of my own, and basically I couldn’t do anything without his permission. Meanwhile he could come and go as he pleased, talk to anyone, have friends, and do whatever he wanted with my money. My bank account eventually got closed because he overdrew it soo many times and got so deep in the hole, I couldn’t get it out. He then made me get an account where he banked and he knew I wouldn’t be able to get a debit card there. All my checks I had to go in and get them cashed, and then hand over all my money to him. If I didn’t he would just get it out of my purse later anyway. I slowly started to gain weight because I was miserable, even though I convinced myself I wasn’t. He constantly made remarks about my body and compared me to women in public, movies, and porn. Asking me why I don’t look like that or he’d make a comment in front of me about another girl saying, “I’d bang the shit out of her.” Never, not once did I ever do that to him but he felt entitled to do it to me. I remember the first time he hit me, he didn’t even apologize after doing it. He told me he’d have no issue doing it again. I walked on eggshells everyday because I never knew what would set him off. I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone about it and if I tried he would somehow know or catch me. I couldn’t even call anyone back home. He alienated me from everyone and kept me under his constant control. He complained if I needed basic necessities, but it was nothing for him to spend over $100 on video games. He made me work two jobs while he worked one. His family knew I was being abused and did nothing. No one helped me, I was absolutely stuck. There were at least 4-5 different times I packed my things wanting to leave but I couldn’t do it. He even told me to one time and when he got home I said I’m packed and he started laughing. He said, “I only said that to see if you would actually pack your things.” He knew I truly couldn’t go anywhere because I didn’t have a car, money or anywhere to go. I caught him several times talking to other girls, and he treated it like no big deal. One time a guy flirted with me and all hell broke loose. He hated the fact someone else thought I was attractive. Even though he truly didn’t want me, he didn’t want anyone else to have me either. He would wait outside my work (without me knowing) and would watch me and watch others that would come in to see if I flirted with them or if they flirted with me. Yet he could flirt and talk to whoever he wanted. He would always tell me no one else would want me. He ripped away any confidence that ever had and truly made me feel the lowest I’ve ever felt and absolutely worthless. I remember having to hide bruises because he would hit me and then he would hit me in places he knew no one could see. There were times I was slammed against the wall by my throat, thrown onto the bed and held down. He told me if I ever got pregnant he’d kick me in the stomach. Yet he forced me to have sex 3-4 times a day with no protection. For almost a year I thought I couldn’t get pregnant, until I did. The day I found out I was pregnant, you would have thought someone died. I cried soo hard and I was afraid to tell him. I had to wait what seemed like an eternity for him to come home so I could tell him. When I told him, he laughed and said “shit happens.” Not the reaction I was hoping for but I guess it was better than him being mad. He drank himself into a stupid mess that night. During that first 6-7 weeks I dropped 40lbs because I couldn’t hold anything down, not even water. He still expected me to cook for him while being that sick. He wouldn’t even allow me to lay on the couch and just rest. I asked him to get me something to drink and an hour passed by and I decided to do it myself. He then says “get me something while you’re up.” I was furious but too sick and weak to do anything. Not to long after that I had to go to the hospital because I wasn’t getting any better and I was afraid I’d have a miscarriage. As soon as I was admitted he left. He left me there knowing I had zero friends and family to come see me. I was in there for 3 days and when I called him for him to come get me he was pissed. Not just because he had to come get me but because I had woken him up from sleeping. I was out for two days and had to go back due to not only still throwing up but throwing up blood this time. I was admitted back in the hospital and this time for much longer. I was in there for about two weeks. After being asked questions about the relationship, the doctors, nurses and basically anyone who came into my room who worked there refused to release me back to him. During this time he never came to see me, never called me I always had to call him. My phone eventually got taken away and then I had to use the hospital phone. He left me high and dry and he didn’t care. He was too busy talking to an 18 year old still in high school and it wasn’t the first time he did that to me. My last night in there, because my mom (first abuser) was coming to get me out of there, he came and saw me. I was a nervous anxious mess. I was also scared. All he did was joke around and made jokes about having sex there. My nerves couldn’t handle it and I began to throw up. He said “well that’s my cue to leave,” and he left. He knew I was leaving the next day and told me to not come to his work and see him before I did. When we got to the house so I could get my things, he had already put them in a box and left it outside. I have never been so hurt and just felt so worthless. After I got away from him I truly wasn’t completely out from under his control. During my pregnancy he tried his best to control what I did, and I wasn’t allowed to “date” even though we were several states away from one another and we were not together at this point. Again he didn’t want me but he didn’t want anyone else to have me either. He wanted full control over me. Our phone calls were screaming matches and he threatened several times to take the baby away once he was born. I knew that would never happen because I knew he was too cheap to get a lawyer to do that. I gave him plenty of time to be there when they baby was born and of course he was a no show. Once I got home from the hospital I called him to let him know his son was born. Instead he yelled at me asking me where I’ve been because he couldn’t get a hold of me. I told him I had been in the hospital and if he tried to call the hospital he would have known that. Nope he rather have an excuse to be mad and yell at me. Sorry I was in the hospital having your baby, my bad!!! He did not really want to be a dad and hit the time my son was 5 he started asking about who his dad was. I didn’t lie and told him. Once again he sweet talked me into a relationship and I only did so for my child. I had to lie to my family in order for them to agree to it. I told him if it was the same crap he did 5 years prior I would end it. Not long into the relationship it was just that. The control started, the manipulation, gas lighting etc. He hadn’t changed. He was still talking to other girls, making demands, telling me what to do etc. I ended it and never went back. I tried to get him to be a father but he didn’t want to be one and I couldn’t force him. Walking away from him for the last time was the best thing I ever did. Yes it was hard but if I didn’t, something worse would have happened. I always get the question “why did you stay” or “why didn’t you leave?” It is not always that easy! He beat me down so much I truly believed no one else wanted me. I felt absolutely worthless. I had zero confidence, no self worth whatsoever. I also had no money, no car, no nothing. He made it to where I was completely dependent on him. The hospital is what saved me the first time by not releasing me back to him. The second time I was able to save myself and walk away before it was too late. I have other stories about being abused by another man, but other than being abused by my mother this one is the one that has left the most scars from a man. That relationship was truly damaging. Over time some memories don’t hurt as bad and still working on some triggers to this day. Though he has passed, the memories, triggers and trauma are still there. Abuse of any kind is never okay! LOVE ISN'T SUPPOSED TO HURT!!

When I was 19 was introduced to a police officer (He was 35) by a mutual friend of ours. I was kind of sheltered and was intrigued by the age gap and buy his power. At first, we hit it off really well and within a couple of weeks started dating, but things went south really quickly. A month or so, he started becoming really possessive and was constantly calling asking where I was who I was with etc. within a month or so of the possessive behavior starting, he introduced me to drugs whenever I was around here, he would make sure that I was so high that I couldn’t say no. He raped me multiple times. I tried to report him to the police station that he worked at, but I could not get anybody to believe me. All they said was that I was just a drug addict and I was seeking attention. Shortly after he started to sex traffic me out to his friends, some of whom were in the police force. during this time we also started going to strip clubs where he would also pimp me out to the men at the strip club. This went on for almost a year until one night at the strip club. I tried to run and get free. Him and his friend caught me and forced me into the trunk of his car where I was driven around and eventually brought back to his home where he held me captive for over two weeks. I eventually escaped and never looked back, but that is not where my nightmare ended. For over a year he stalked me. I had to move five times in the span of a year and a half and every time he found me, he broke into my home multiple times, including several times in the night where he held a gun to my head and threatened to kill me on multiple occasions. The last straw was when he called me and told me that he had given me aids. He did not I think he was just trying to scare me into coming back to him which I did not and I guess he got bored with the game and left me alone. For many years after he would try to call me a couple of times a year under a private number I never answered, and I ran into him more times than I can count as he lived in the same area that I did. He was never prosecuted because I could never get anyone to believe me. This happened 19 years ago and I am still living with PTSD and nightmares.

To my fellow survivor, I am a 9 year survivor of sexual assault. I am proud to be sharing my story, and hoping my words can provide comfort and courage. Something that was very important to me was reporting my rapist. Fear takes over our body, and we feel numb. I wanted to cocoon myself in a blanket and stay there forever. The thought of contacting law enforcement was terrifying. Taking that scary step can make you feel empowered. I wanted my voice, my story, and my emotions to be heard. There is a quote “speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.” This quote carried me through one of the most difficult times in my life. When we speak our truth, we are no longer carrying this alone. You are being heard and taking back the power. Share your story, heal with love and care, and most of all surviving is the bravest of all. “I now see how owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.” Brené Brown