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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.

I am Name years old single mom of two beautiful kids ages 10 and 12 years old. I was once a victim of abusement, harassment, assault, defamation, and rudeness of other people when I am just a simple, kind and silent person. Until now, they still look down on me and I don't know what have I done why they hate, angry and so rude to me. They are treating me like I am not an educated person when I am and they keep on look down on me because we are just simple and in a middle class person or family. And they think that they think better than me and I don't have any complain of it but they keep trying to argue with me that I am a better dumb person to them. And it's kind of abusing to think of that way that they think like that to me and that's insult me of my human being. I don't know what to do right now on how to express of this. My family I dont know if they doesn't know about this or they know about this or just hiding from me that they know everything but they really dont agree with me all the time or don't believe in me. What help should I seek for this matter of existence!?

I'm 71 years old and allowed myself to be abuised for over 20years out of a 36 year marriage. I lost my daughters and grandchildren because of my actions. I've got no one I'm totally alone. I found out that my husband was a drug addict to prescriptions and was a thief and a liar who manipulated everyone around him he was a good guy. I was to busy working raising a family and continued to let this man use me because I loved him. I just realized love shouldn't hurt. He's left our home for years at a time, I've never gone with any one else. I've been raped strangled beaten bruised bloodied ,used money and antiques stolen etc. . I allowed myself to be used over and over why I don't know still don't I thought I loved him because we had a special bond . I was kidding myself and it hurts more than you know. I tried to end my life to get rid of the pain of abuise and failed years ago. Couldn't live with the pain of losing my family. . I'm so alone sitting in a house wasting away waiting to die someday someone will notice by my mail or my dog. What a shame I was a beautiful strong loving wife and mother grandmother to be left this way to die alone and broken because I was abuised I blame , my children for not protecting me,, the courts most of all I blame myself for loving a man and not loving myself more. I need help and I still do.

I thought he was the most perfect guy in the world. He was romantic, smart, funny, loving, kind, everything I had ever wanted in a guy. When things started to shift, I deeply believed it was my responsibility as his girlfriend to comfort him, take care of him, fix him. But as the breakdowns became more consistent, as he became more violent, as the words grew heavier and more hurtful, I was left feeling drained. My belief that I was supposed to stick by his side no matter what, that love was forgiving and forgetting, destroyed me. He was broken, and it was selfish to leave him. He didn’t mean it, he apologized eventually, he comforted me when he hurt me, so it was okay. But if I could go back in time, I’d scream “leave now, save yourself.” Because these excuses I was making were just that. Excuses. It was not normal. It was not okay. No excuses could be made to make his behavior normal. I just want everyone out there to know that it is not your fault. You are not weak. You are not stupid for not seeing it sooner. You were in love with someone who only showed you a small aspect of themselves, and then revealed the rest when you were already in too deep. One time is enough. It wasn’t an accident the first time, and it won’t be an accident the next. The recovery process is hard. But it’s so worth it. And you are worth so much more than what he declares over you. Please know that you are not alone. I’m rooting for you and I know others are too.

For years I questioned what I was doing wrong and how someone who loved me could be so comfortable hurting me. But they didn’t hit me so I never looked at it as DV or myself as a victim. Through different type of relationships, it was a revolving door, but they didn’t hit me so I wasn’t a victim. Until my last relationship. In 3 1/2 years, he put his hands on me once, but if I had just let him leave, he wouldn’t have done it. For the longest time, he was planting it into my head that I was the issue. The good times were really good so I overlooked the bad cause I loved him more than I loved myself in that moment. The way he loved my kids (who were not his) also kept me around for a lot longer than I should have. I planned a life with him in my head cause he was helping raise kids that weren’t his so he must be an amazing man to step up, until he started lacking. Then I realizing me being unhappy with him, was hurting my kids more than I knew. He made me believe that I was so “mentally unstable” no one would ever love me & that being 6ft down in a grave was the only way I was going to be able to get away from him. Then I left & I was so proud of myself. I started doing intensive therapy & working on myself & then the thoughts he planted in my head came back. “No one could ever love you the way I do because I was there for you in your lowest” & I broke the no contact & let him back in. Things were good at first, and then he would shove the past in my face & tell me how much he hated me & the verbal & mental abuse cycle began again. But this time, I knew better. I found out about mental & physical abuse, I did research, I was in groups & I was learning to love myself again. I had boundaries for the first time in a long time. And then I found out about the cheating a year prior while he was living at my house & the summer of the downward spiral had begun. I blocked him again & was so depressed, I began drowning it with alcohol. I felt my heart just break as this man had spent so much time accusing me of cheating while I was working to support my kids, just for him to turn around & do it to me. I almost lost everything & it took me losing 1 of my jobs to finally get back on track. I stopped drinking for a while, I found a better job, I spent more time with my kids & began re-evaluating what made me happy in life. I re-discovered my healthy boundaries, I was working more, I was laughing again & generally meaning it. I started talking to my friends about my feelings & where I was in life. For a year, things were going better (there’s always going to be the ups & downs but it was better). And then the 1 year of me blocking had come up & I caved & unblocked him on his birthday. At first it was to be petty, and then I found out he was seeing someone. I played it like I didn’t know anything, we hung out a few times & then the old him came out again but this time, I was in a better place & I knew what to accept & what to correct. I finally seen him being in my life was not good for me mentally & as much as I miss the him he pretended to be when we first met, I am learning to mourn the person who never existed. I don’t want to call him for every little thing anymore (good or bad). He doesn’t get access to me or my kids life anymore & I love the strong, independent female I am becoming. I’m so proud of the scars I’m healing & acknowledging that I’m human & I am going to have weak days that I might want to message him & I’m taking it 1 day at a time. Going from planning a future & a life with someone you thought was them to mourning someone who never actually existed is something most people will never understand (& I hope they never have too). Some days are easier than others & it’s ok to get lost as long as you find your way back to the track. I am strong because I have no other choice but I’m learning it’s ok to have weak days & I don’t always have to be so strong. Cry, scream, punching a pillow is healthy ways to let all of that out. I’m not perfect & I don’t have to be but I will be there for others going through this & let them know they’re not alone, it’s not their fault & they are very so much loved

My memory is no longer present. Attempted molestation as a child by a cousin, luckily my grandmother told me how to get out of these situations. Once he began to undress I made up a story and ran out of the room to let her know what had happened. I still had to see him at family events throughout the years because his dad supported him and did not believe me. My grandmother always believed me. At 16, my first time (if you can even call it that) was a sexual assault in my own home. My boyfriend at the time assaulted me, his cousin saw and I locked eyes for help but he just walked away. I had to hold this secret from my mother, afraid she would blame herself. I ended in a relationship with my perpetrator out of fear until I was strong enough to break away with support from friends. A few months later I was assaulted again by a college student on campus. My friend at the time had walked outside and he threw me down. Once she came back in, she was yelling for us and I threw a pen into the next room, which hit something to make a bang, as she came closer, he finally stopped. So much coercion I couldn't even tell you, sometimes it's hard to remember what was real. Now I try to be the person I needed. I support survivors with whatever decision they want to make, but let them know they are never alone. Thank goodness for our local sexual violence resource center to be there to provide healing. I wish I had known about this service when I needed it.

I have a confession. There are a lot of things that people don’t know about me. Some have seen me change drastically since 2015, but very few know what happened back then. Some people may only know me as how I am now, and it’s not something that everyone that I know now gets to learn about me. I am opening up here to share that there is Hope in Hell, even when I didn’t see it at that time. My hope is that I will tell my story of how I overcame what I went through and it will become someone’s guide. We know what this book is about, and you may wonder what happened in 2015 to change my life so drastically. In 2015, I was wrongfully arrested and charged after having a verbal dispute with my partner at that time. I can see how I was the target of the charges, after all, my partner was in a wheelchair at that time and looked oh so vulnerable. The landlord had been outside mowing the grass and “saw” through curtains that were closed, me assaulting my partner at the time, when what in reality happened was we were having a verbal disagreement over beer and weed. I was going to skip the details about the encounter with the cops, but perhaps this should be shared as well. At the time of my arrest I was staring “out” the window (again, curtains were closed) on the phone to a friend of mine, explaining that I had just got in an argument with my partner at the time and that the cops were on their way. I was fine with that, afterall, I didn’t do anything wrong. What I was unaware of, is what was said during that call to the cops. While I was on the phone, I was caught off guard, spun around, phone thrown and had my body thrown to the ground, with at least one cop kneeling on me. It was scary, I didn’t know at the time what was going on, I was caught off guard, I was scared, I was confused, of course I wiggled a bit trying to catch up to what was going on. [During my trial the cop testified they almost took out the baton to hit me. At this time, I was 5’5”, maybe 110 lbs? There was no need for any of this, they made it sound like I was much stronger and bigger than I was.] I remember laying there, looking at my partner begging him to tell them what really happened. But he didn’t say a word. Ended up sitting in a cop car for hours, a female cop mocking me as I cried. I tried to tell them I had proof on my phone that he had been violent in the past, but they didn’t care. I was the bad guy here. [Turns out they ended up reaching out to my parents to come and pick up my son, at that time he was about 6 years old and was in the office during most of the commotion.] The holding cell was not fun, a couple benches, a toilet and clear plastic wall along the back. A ton of people screaming and banging around. It was terrifying, and it didn’t matter what I told the cops when they interviewed me, they didn’t care. I ended up leaving after maybe 12 hours with 5 charges, and no way home. I recall trying to phone a friend, and it being about 3am-5am, and he would not answer. I was in the middle of downtown, with my shirt ripped and looking like something went terribly wrong, which it did. I didn’t have any money, and hoped for the best as I went and took the train to the bus station. I told the bus driver I was trying to get home and didn’t have any money. They could see I was in rough shape and thankfully let me ride the bus for free. I eventually got back to my parents house, it was a relief for sure. My partner at the time depended on me a lot as he was paralyzed from a previous car accident, and we texted back and forth a bit about trying to get me back home. I was ordered to stay away at that point, and after some convincing, I ended up going back to help him out. Little did I know, a friend of his called the cops on me again for breaching my order… and off I went to jail, AGAIN, and charged with the breach. At least this time I knew what to expect, and was able to calm a girl down in the holding cell. But what the fuck was going on!?! How did I end up here? You might think that introduction was full of “excitement”, but it does get “better”. When you hit that rock bottom, you lose everything, my son (who stayed with my parents), my house, everything, it makes you wonder. Trust me, at the moment I was so pissed off! I didn’t want to go to court mandated women's groups, I WAS NOT THE ABUSER. But in times like this, you gotta do what the court says, when the court says. Spoiler alert, this trial took forever to go on, and we were about to ask for it to be dismissed. However, the last day my ex-partner shows up and the trial goes ahead. I went to my trial and all court dates alone, no one offered to come with me, well one person did for my trial but bailed on me that morning. While waiting for the outcome, I sat in the court parking lot for 3 hours, waiting to see if I would go home that night. What would my parents say to my son if I didn’t return home that day? What would happen next? The judge found me guilty, I had to “play nice” and say good things about cops and all of it, and in the end I had 1 year of probation. I missed the “best” part, only a few years prior I had been working as a legal assistant, in the past volunteered for the cops, and also did security work. So again, how did I get to this place?! If we start back to when I was out of high school we can see a dangerous pattern emerge. Out of high school I worked for a security company that did concerts and events. I ended up going out of town to work with my co-workers, along with people from the same company but from another city. It was a huge event and we were there for the weekend. Everything was going well until the last night. I can’t recall what happened exactly that night, but I knew I had been sexually assaulted. I ended up waking up in a tent trailer, naked, alone, and had no idea what happened. When I exited this tent trailer, a larger male who had worked in my city started talking to me, which was odd, because I never talked to him before, he was a bit too friendly. I then put the limited pieces together that I had and realized I had been sexually assaulted. On the way back to town, I had messaged a friend telling them what happened, and they said they would meet me at my house. I was exhausted from the trip home, and all I really wanted was to take a shower and I did… this turned out to be a BIG mistake. I ended up going to the hospital that night and reporting the assault. The tests were taken, my clothes were taken by the cops, and what followed was police protocol, but no charges being laid, because he was close with everyone in the company, and had them on his side. I was interviewed multiple times by the police. I wasn’t driving at this time and only told my mom the bare minimum to get a ride to the police station. After the first interview at the station I was called in to be re-interviewed because the sound and/or video was not recording the first time. The second time I went in they said that my facts were not adding up, like how many people attended this big event. This second interview was some time after the actual incident, how was this small detail going to stay in my mind? This ended again like I said, with no charges to the suspect. This was a major distrust for me in the legal system, how could nothing be done? Plus, my company wasn’t going to fire him either, so I had to go. I lost my job after I was sexually assaulted. You may be wondering what this incident has to do with me ending up in jail approximately 10 years later? I think this was the catalyst that sent me down a dark path. After this incident, I figured, it would just be easier and better to just have a family of my own. I believed that I wouldn’t have to go through this again, I would be safe, and boy I was wrong. I met a guy on the good old site Site Name., and he ended up proposing to me online. This was not too long after the sexual assault. Of course I said yes at that time, I would be safe, and this became the beginning of the end for me. We ended up living together between my parents place and his parents place in another city. He wasn’t good at keeping a job, and everything he previously told me about was a lie. At that time, I didn’t see that as a red flag, it was just more annoying than anything else. We decided to have a baby. I ended up becoming pregnant, and we ended up back at his parents place because our current city just wasn’t working for us. Turns out things in the other city were much worse, he didn’t have luck with a job there, and his parents were going to kick us out. I tried to get work, but was unsuccessful at that time. We had no choice but to go back to my city. I had to call my parents to see if we could come back, they said yes, but I then told them I was pregnant, I mean they had to know somehow, and that’s how they found out. We moved back to town. We bounced around from place to place so many times because he would not be able to hold down a job. I was working at this time as a receptionist and my pay cheque would only go so far. We decided to get married and not be traditional, in fact after talking to people I worked with, we decided to have our wedding in my bosses basement about a month or two before my son was born. It was a cheap wedding, had co-workers who helped plan everything, we found a regular summer dress because I was pregnant and they were able to add little decorations to it, it turned out pretty nice. But of course I didn’t tell my family about the wedding, and we ended up getting married in the basement with my co-workers, a friend of his and a friend of mine as witnesses. Afterwards we went back to my parents like nothing happened, although my sister was suspicious because I had some intense makeup on, and a dress. But I never said anything. My family found out that I was legally married when my registration renewal papers came and the renewal month was not the same as everyone else’s. Oops, that confusion on how I would have a different renewal month was how everyone found out I now had a different last name, and we had gotten married. You may wonder, why didn’t I want my family to know? I just didn’t care to tell them at that time. I had a pretty bad history with my family from what I could remember. My childhood was not great at all, growing up I dealt with one of my parents being an alcoholic and the other one being physically violent to myself. I wanted to change my last name, because of my childhood I did not want to keep their last name, I wanted to not be part of that anymore. Today I still hold my ex-husband's last name, same as my sons, and only because I will NEVER go back to my maiden name. One would think that this sounds like my happily ever after. And that's far from what took place. I recall a time I went on my laptop and had found out that he had been on Site Namewith another girl and seeing her naked on camera. I was furious! I don’t recall much except an argument that happened. My son was born July, 2008. Things seemed fine, I didn’t know how to take care of a baby, this was new to me and my new husband. Of course, he was still not working. Since he never worked, we always jumped from house to house, getting evicted everytime the landlord found out we couldn’t pay rent. It is now easier to see the red flags pile up. I recall another incident, I can’t remember the context, but it was after my son was born, my husband ended up ramming one of those brick cell phones down on my skull. Another time at that same location he got mad at me and kicked me in the stomach and I fell backwards through a door onto the bed. This time I grabbed my son, without his shoes or anything and took him to my parents house. I remember texting a good friend of mine at the time, ‘if anything happens to me, Name did it.’ The details after this are a bit fuzzy because it did happen back in 2008, but we stayed together a bit longer. It would have been 2009 when the other incidents occurred. I had another job as a security guard, and my husband was to take care of our son while I was at work, and work when I was at home. Of course he didn’t work, but I did. One night I got home late, apparently awoke him from his sleep and he threatened to slit my throat and ensure my son didn’t have a mother anymore. But for some reason I stayed. Sometime around this situation, he was kicked out of my parents house and living in the backyard in a tent. One day I go to work, can’t find my husband, keep trying to text him, and nothing. It was very strange, and even my electronics were gone. Turns out the pawnshop had them and because we were married there was nothing I could do to get them back. I eventually “found” my husband, and he claimed that he ended up in ANOTHER city, buying me jewelry. I couldn’t believe that for a minute, nothing about this story made sense, especially since he didn’t drive. I then took that opportunity to go to the police and report what had happened. I was able to easily obtain an EPO, emergency protection order, and get the parenting and everything started. Of course someone like my ex-husband would not take my choice lightly and he decided to ignore the orders and constantly call me ALL the time, as it was a breach of the order, I was able to call the cops and report him. Even when the officer was at my house talking to me, he STILL kept calling. Let me get one thing straight, even with all these charges against him, nothing was ever done. In the end he was arrested once, but released on his own with a promise to appear, did he show up? Of course not. I remember getting a call from victim services (I believe), and they let me know that my ex-husband did not show up for his court date. They were unable to give me any specifics as to where he was arrested or anything. I went to the police office near my house and desperately tried to find out where he was arrested. I was terrified of him coming back. Luckily I found out there was no record of him being arrested in Location. I believe I was only told this because we had the same last name, and he was using my parents address. What took place next was a lot of court dates, and trying to figure out how my ex-husband could be served these documents. I knew where his parents lived, and luckily was able to get a substitutional service order where I was allowed to serve him via registered mail. He never attended a single court date. We had court dates for the parenting order, the divorce, child support order, and he never showed up, time after time. Still to this date he has never paid a cent in child support. Our son is 15 now, and has never talked to his biological father, or his grandparents on his fathers side. His sisters reached out a few years ago, they thought they would be mad at me if they reached out sooner. When this all happened they were around 10 years old maybe? I didn’t blame them for anything their brother did. We don’t really talk much, but do have each other on Facebook. One of his sisters is still trying to help me get information so the government can enforce my child support order. After my ex-husband was gone, eventually I decided to date again. I dated a guy named A.P. I always thought this was my one relationship that didn’t go sideways. But looking back, there were a ton of red flags. I would always buy him cigarettes, I even ended up going around to different pharmacies trying to get T1’s (Tylenol Ones), because he was addicted to taking them, there was a handful of times he tried to convince me to start smoking, wanted me to start taking T1’s for NO REASON, and other times he wanted me to start smoking weed. Aside from these behaviors I listed, everything else was good, which was why I think I misled myself into believing this was a healthy relationship which it was not. After this relationship was a guy named Initials. Now I thought with this relationship I had figured out what went wrong in the last ones, and tried to fix those issues before they could arise. I had laid down some boundaries and figured that was all I had to do. Now it turns out that what I witnessed in the relationship and what he witnessed in the relationship were two different things. Years later I found out that he was addicted to harder drugs and was using them at the time we were seeing each other. Perhaps this explains some of the behaviors, but it doesn’t excuse them. Somehow throughout this relationship, I ended up splitting open my head off of my nightstand, he destroyed my TV by punching it, I had a fractured rib, and a fractured foot. I can not recall the exact details of this relationship and how the events took place as it was really short lived. Eventually he took off and never responded to me again. I ended up going to court alone, because the landlord was trying to evict us. It was all so much for me to deal with… alone. Of course though, I didn’t want this to be the end, and when I did end up hearing from him by text, I said I could try and put our stuff in storage. Luckily for me, that idea didn’t go through, and I had to just give away the majority of our items. The following guy I ended up seeing, his name was Initials, for the life of me I cannot remember his last name, though this relationship was quite a memorable one, but for all the wrong reasons. Luckily for my son and I, we had not moved in with this ex by the time we separated. We were having plans on moving out of the city to move into an apartment with him, but for some reason it just didn’t work as planned. Aside from our usual arguments and deciding we were separating or staying together, we did have one large incident which ended everything as it were. We had been out of town for the weekend and were having a decent time, but something still seemed off. He wasn’t too open to explaining what was going on with him, and I really didn’t just want to leave it at that. It was our last day being out of town and we had gotten into a verbal argument, but instead of it just staying verbal, it turned into a life changing event. I ended up having the left side of my body slammed into a door numerous times. After the incident, he took off and decided to walk back to his town. As I was further from my city, I decided to leave right then as the pain was getting bad and I still had a while to travel. I remember stopping at a rest stop because I couldn’t keep driving and my knee was so bad. I got home and then met up with a friend to discuss what had happened. We thought that was about the extent of it and I would be better in no time. Except, that didn’t happen. I ended up going to a hospital to get them to check out my knee, they had said I had fluid in my knee, and would need a needle to drain the liquid if it didn’t get better. It was when I went to physio that I was told that the muscle was ripped off my knee cap, and that is why I couldn’t walk on that leg. I would say this was almost 10 years ago? Still to this day I can’t drive long distances without my knee swelling up, my knee is in pain during the winter and colder months, and overall bothers me a lot more often than I would like. I have done the CT scans, another one where I needed to take some kind of radiation drink, x-rays, ultrasounds, you name it, and there is nothing they can do to provide me any relief. I can exercise all I want and try to strengthen my knee, but my last physiotherapist said my knee cap is more like a train that fell off the tracks. I did end up reporting this to the RCMP, and well I have never heard back. The last time I heard, they were still trying to locate my ex as he might have fled the province. There was only a police report, no formal charges. Since it took so long, and an incident with my next partner took place around this time, I forgot to keep following up and they never let me know what happened. One would think I may have clued into what was going on and the pattern that I was in the middle of. But I wasn’t. There was one last lesson to learn before everything would change in my world. My last ex was Initials, and this is the one I mentioned in the beginning. It was this relationship that took everything away from me. I already mentioned about the arrest in 2015, but there was more to the relationship than just that. I remember one night when we were in our first place we had together, he tried to suffocate me while we were in bed. I ended up calling the police on this, and they talked to him, they talked to me, and nothing was ever done. We did end up getting kicked out of the condo because they didn’t like the fact that the cops were called to the building. I recall a time when we were driving, I believe we were coming back into town, and for some reason he got really angry and started hitting me and scratching me while I drove. I stopped the car immediately in a safe area and was wondering where the nearest RCMP station was, because I was not going to accept this behavior. We were pretty much in the middle of nowhere, but I remember going to the nearest town gas station I could find and see if they knew where the nearest RCMP office was. I looked like a disaster, had been crying, in rough shape on my arms, and they never asked me if I was okay or needed anything. Which can be slightly strange as I was buying first aid items and asking for the nearest RCMP station. Anyways, I never ended up finding an RCMP station that day, I did however take photos. Photos that never meant anything to the police when they would later come back to my door. There was one last minor incident before my arrest, but it had to do with him. He seemed to be suicidal and claimed he took all these pills, so I was scared, called 911 to get the police and paramedics to come over, again nothing happend except them showing up and assessing the situation. It was on me to call back if the situation got worse. It was shortly after this when I was arrested. I lost everything, and that’s when I had no choice but to start over. I was angry and hated the fact I was wrongfully arrested and charged, I hated the fact I was now court mandated to take courses. I lost my son due to me being upset when family services came over to talk. I had what seemed to be the worst case worker there. She would tell me I was lying to her, and then find out I was right all along. I had numerous tasks I had to complete before I could stay with my son again. At this time I was homeless, living out of hotels, when the money ran out I could stay at my parents lake place, but had to leave and go to their home when my son and them wanted to go visit the lake. Eventually I had a basement suite that my parents rented for me, and finally ended up back with my parents and my son, with family services closing the file. But in the end, I really enjoyed the court mandated women's group, and I stayed an additional month. I learnt more about boundaries, gaslighting, and met with other women who had been in similar situations. For once, I didn’t feel alone, there were others out there, there were others like me. It took awhile, but I had realized that one of the biggest problems I had was I was moving in too soon with guys. The main cause of this at the time was I was trying to get out of my parents house because I did not like staying where one parent was always drinking. I have now decided that I would not move in with someone unless it was my own place, so I would not be stranded again with my son. It sounds like a good plan, right? But not when I was left with C-PTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), the trauma, being terrified of males, being terrified of cops, everything eventually crashed down on me. I had to go through a lot of therapy, and I mean years of therapy and trying to find the right person to work with. It was much harder since the last time I had worked was 2012, so it was a much longer process than if I was paying myself. After the therapy, counseling, ART (Accelerated Resolution Therapy) and learning about spirituality, I started to feel much better. I wasn’t confident yet to have a relationship with anyone, but I felt like myself again. For a long time I didn’t know who I was without being in a relationship. What did I enjoy doing? What did I want to do? Who was I? How old was I? Slowly I began to find things I enjoyed doing, and things were looking up for me. Another major player in this recovery of mine was joining a CoDA (Codependents Anonymous) group, this was because looking back, a lot of my behaviors in the past were codependent. My behaviors went from pleasing people, to being afraid to get people angry, to focusing more on others than what I enjoyed, not wanting to cause problems and more. I have been part of this group for almost two years, and I think if anything, this is what might save my life. I now have gone through a step study, admitted what I had done in my past, made amends where necessary and now feel confident in being able to be in a relationship without falling back into these old patterns. It was a friend of mine who said, "If you don’t love yourself, how could anyone else?” The statement was a shock, but only once I started healing this part of myself did I understand what she meant. People tend to treat you, how you treat yourself. Now people will know I don’t take any shit from anyone, I am not afraid to lose anyone who does not support my highest good, and I am blunt and mean what I say. Now I feel like I come from a place of authenticity. I will not lose everything for anyone ever again. Recently I was diagnosed with ADHD, and getting this diagnosis has been eye opening for me. I can see how things in my past may have been influenced by my disorder and me not knowing about it. As much as I wish I had been diagnosed sooner, I am grateful to know now. I can now work with my brain and not against it. For me, it’s been a relief knowing that some things I have struggled with all my life were not because I was lazy, but because I literally had an “illness” I didn’t know about. The more I learn about ADHD and the more I recognize those patterns in me, the stronger I become. I have taken back my power, I feel stronger than I ever have before. I am not dating right now, and that is because dating has changed dramatically since all this took place. I don’t even know where to turn these days. That can wait for now. I have taken courses, earned certificates, and I now am working as an independent contractor and now have a business of my own. It took a long time, but in the end it was worth it. I really hate it when people say, ‘things always happen for a reason’, perhaps they are right here. I went through that to find out how strong I am, and for me to now be able to support others in similar situations. I have recently become a Certified PAIL Coach, and want my main focus to be on supporting domestic violence survivors and those going through divorce. As an intuitive empath, this is the perfect place for me to be. As I stated in the beginning, I want my story to be one that inspires others. If I could do all this alone, anyone can. Never did I ever think I would get to where I am now. I share my story to show that there is ‘hope in hell’. It is hard to see when you are in the middle of a situation that is destroying you, but you can overcome it. You can become more than you thought you can when you put your mind to it and make that decision to change for the better. “Growth comes from chaos, not order.” When things remain the same, you get the same outcome. If there is one thing you get from my story, please know that you are not alone. Do not be afraid to reach out. There are people that want to help you, even if they don’t know you personally. I wish I knew all this when I went through my trauma… or let’s call it my journey. “No I won’t stay silent so you can stay comfortable.” Name

I was 15 when I first started dating my former abuser, up until I had escaped him after I turned 18. I am happy to say it has been 5 years since I had escaped him, and the PTSD does not affect me as much as it used to anymore. I’ve found writing poetry allows me to express my emotions and work through the triggering memories. A poem I wrote to work through them is written below, it may be triggering to you so read it only if you feel comfortable with doing so. It is titled “Why Did She (I) Stay?”. If you have not heard it today, allow me to tell you this: you are strong, you are loved, you are amazing, you are a survivor. And you are not alone. You can thrive after abuse. 💜 “Why Did She (I) Stay?” June 8th, 2017, is a date I will never forget. Not only was it my first date with a boy, at the age of 15, it was the day that I unknowingly opened Pandora’s box, one that I naively unlocked. June 20th, 2017, we went bowling, he asked me to be his girlfriend, even though I was about to be 16 in a couple months, and he would be 18, a legal adult. The question left my head spinning like the ball thrown down the alley. I had no idea the bowling balls thrown would turn into punches being thrown, me being thrown- into walls, and crying over my brother’s death? Forget it, he didn’t allow me to cry at all. March 15th, 2018, I was left crying in a private bathroom stall, at school, because I had found out I was pregnant while simultaneously losing my child, a daughter who I would never meet, hear the sound of her little pattering feet, and I cried in defeat. That was the day I lost even more of me, and while telling him about everything, he slapped me- across the face, and attempted the gaslighting. I couldn’t tell any of his family or mine, otherwise he’d do worse than yell, and I’d be fighting for my life. I could relay every event of abuse I suffered through, but that would take so much time, from me and from you. Fast forward, to October 6th, 2019. He was 20, and I was freshly 18, about to graduate trade school, and earn my degree, but that day was when I decided enough was enough, and I attempted to flee. He threw my things, all over the bedroom, the bathroom, and into the toilet and tub, because then he would have nobody to control, I mean show false love. He beat me within inches of my life, and at that point, I had to make a decision that would cut me worse than a rusty knife making a deep incision. I bought myself time, 24 hours to be exact, by claiming I would stay with him, all so I could keep my life intact. October 7th, 2019, was my freedom day. That morning, I called my mom to say, “Is it okay if I move back home? He’s been beating me, and I know I’ll die if I stay.” That night, we drove out there to get my things, and on the way home, all I could think is let freedom fucking ring. September 18, 2023, was the day I came face to face with my abuser again. Set to testify in his custody hearing, I knew what needed to be done to end his controlling even with my anxiety flaring. As I entered the courthouse, I turned around- and stared at him with a look I can’t reenact, but if looks could kill, I would’ve sent a million bullets firing back. That was the day I took my power back. Knowing I had no fear in my eyes, and seeing all of the fear in his, that was truly the day I ceased being a victim and rose as a survivor. I went into that at 15 as a naive teenager, and walked out of that courthouse at 22 now, as a damn fighter. To anyone who believes that they are alone, dealing with this, one thing I will say: it is better to be able to come home alive, than having your loved ones grieving every day and asking “Why did she stay?”

At a young age, I started therapy. I found through therapy I grew up with narcissistic parents, and my sister developed narcissistic traits. I was the scapegoat in the family. My parents taught my siblings and I that family comes first. My family took advantage of my sensitivity. They expected me to do everything for them. If I did anything for myself, I was told I am selfish. After years of therapy, I learned that explained a lot as to why the relationships I had felt similar to what I had with my family. I never knew my childhood trauma linked to my relationships. My daughter's father abused us emotionally, mentally, and physically. Hitting, slapping, belittling, name calling and more. A lot like how my family treated me, but minus the physical abuse. Eventually he left. Before he left, he pinned me to the wall and threatened to hit me. He left. I got a restraining order. He broke it by coming to my house. No one was home at the time, but he was there because he left a note on the gate of my house. That happened two more times. After awhile, it stopped. A few years later, I attempted another relationship. I ended the relationship last year. I had to. He was a combination of my dad and my daughter's father when it came to narcissistic abuse and domestic violence. After finding my current therapist, my therapist said she she is proud of me. She said I was able to break the generational chain of abuse. It was scary to break up with my now ex, but I wasn't happy. The healing is scary, emotional, but necessary. Both my Down Syndrome daughter, and I are blessed to have each other.

My first experience was with an ex girlfriend when I was still young, I didn’t know that when they wouldn’t take no for an aswer and I gave in, it would make me feel so horrible. I continued to date her and give in to her whims until she left me. The next time was similar, but it made me feel even more terrible because that’s when I knew he only wanted to date me to fuck me. We didn’t get very far before being caught, and the relief I felt for being found was incredible, but the shame was unbearable and gut wrenching. Five years after, still struggling with the burden of my previous experiences, struggling with the shame, I couldn’t talk about it with anyone. I went to a house party to see an online friend from overseas, there was only one other girl at that party and I immediately felt unsafe. I was right. I can not say what was done to me while I was drunk off my ass, or while I was half asleep in bed, but again I feel shame for not being able to fight back, for being so scared that after my no or my drunken state weren’t taken seriously, I just gave in again. I feel dirty, I feel like a burden for being traumatized, I feel like a whiny bitch for feeling like this when there are others who have gone through so much more.

October 2022 - February 2023 HE picked me up the first day in the shiniest white Toyota I’d ever seen. Hallucinating halos of light around him, I knew in my heart: this was the man I would marry. Almost 15 years older, but so handsome, so experienced. We seemed to have everything in common—intellectual passions (both personal and professional), unbreakable bonds with our widowed mothers, and a shared dream of building an all-American family home. Cruising through the crisp mid-October air, we swapped thoughts and expectations before arriving at Place downtown library. I’d never even dated before. He, meanwhile, had recently lost out on a girl named Name. After attending a free 3D modeling class, we drove home through the PlaceDistrict. Admiring the street art and neighborhood history, Partner Name grinned widely. He talked endlessly about books, so our biweekly “dates” shifted to Barnes & Noble. Marriage dreams swirled through my mind; I thought I was in heaven, Ignorance is bliss. Or in this case—a kiss. HER name was Name Mother in law. Emphasis on the Mother in Law Name. At first, she didn’t look harmful. A government employee and the grandmother of my future children,Name Mother in law seemed overjoyed when Partner Nametold her I’d proposed. She served me huge slices of homemade pistachio cake during what should have been one of our cozy courtship nights at home. On weekends, we both did laundry and cleaning. Even after I returned from an emergency psychiatric stay, she hugged me. Told me she loved me. Promised I was safe. “What’s mine is yours,” she said. Food, water, shelter, family, a bed—even help looking for work. She was like… a mother-in-law to me. Somewhere in that 4 month bloody scuffle - my hymen snapped, and someone forced me to fellate them repeatedly. I thought it was my fiancé on top of me when it happened. But he wasn’t my fiancé. Which means she wasn’t my mother in law either…

it actually began in the summer of 1975 when I was 8 years old. my brother came to home on thackeray court in the sheridan parkside projects. My brother brother 2 had just got his license and was so happy that he brought my brother along. while mom, brother 2, and my sister were outside, i was upstairs playing with my star trek playset, when brother came from the bathroom and asked me if I wanted to play doctor. I thought he meant the child's version of it, but he meant the grown-up version. so he asked me to take off my clothes then started feeling my naked body, touching my genitals and feeling my penis, and then said to me this is how people have sex. He then said some very filthy sex talk like you would read in hustler magazine, then said don’t tell mom or I’ll say that it was your idea. so mom and dad never knew about it. there was no police report or rape kit taken. fast forward to september of 1989 when I was 22 years old, my brother brother, his girlfriend, and their 6-month-old baby daughter came up from florida and stayed with mom and me for 3 months. And when mom was at work, they would rape me every night for 3 months, sometimes by her, sometimes by him, or sometimes by the two of them together. It was 90 days of hell every night. When I would go to bed, all I would think about is wanting to commit suicide just to make it all end. but I did not because mom finally found out about all of this in march 2012 when I turned 45 years old just for the simple reason he said that he would kill her if i said anything. So in june 2012, I started going to counseling because i was diagnosed with p.t.s.d because of it. i still go to this very day, 12 years later because sometimes my p.t.s.d flares up from flashbacks or because of the 4th of july fireworks and I talk to her about it, hold nothing back.

I was 16 at the time. I had been with my boyfriend for 1 year. He was my very first boyfriend, very first everything. For the whole first year he love bombed me. Bought me tons of presents, wrote me paragraphs, and told me he loved me after the first date. When I turned 16 we decided to have sex for the first time. We were both virgins at the time. The first time was consensual we both agreed that we had waited long enough. However, I didn’t enjoy it (I later have figured out I like women). I had a very low libido and he would get into arguments with me about it. Saying that I owe him sex because of everything he did for me and my family. Every time I ended up giving in. I ended up having sex that I didn’t want to have. One day after a big argument we had he said to me “tomorrow we are going to have sex because the intimacy will solve our problems”. I agreed with him because I thought maybe it would. The next day came and I was not in the mood. I told him no countless times. He told me I have to because I agreed to yesterday. We ended up on the floor me on all fours silently crying while he pounded inside me. I sat in the bathroom for 20 minutes crying afterwards. I had no idea what was happening until I broke it off 2 months later.

The dark parts don’t trigger me anymore. I know I’m safe now—in myself, my mind, body, soul, home, relationships, and life. It wasn’t always that way. I can talk about it if I choose to. Not everyone gets to hear my sacred story, and that’s how it should be. I’m no less worthy, and neither are you. Naturally, it took time to recover. The past could be unsettling during the healing process, often in unexpected ways. One day, I opened a social media account, and an acquaintance from my soccer community posted a team picture of his latest league victory. There, kneeling in the front row, was the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde I once lived through. Seeing him smiling while standing dangerously close to others I knew was unnerving and reminded me how effortless it was for Hyde to convince people he was something he wasn’t. I left that relationship. More accurately, I secured my safety and Hyde’s departure, changed the locks, and blocked any way of contacting me. I thought I had to do it that way, on my own, but that wasn’t true. I painted the walls, but it would always be a trauma environment. Despite my efforts to see past the wreckage, open up, and have conversations, I often felt criticized and painfully alone. If you are unaware of the long list of reasons why it’s difficult for women to speak up, inform yourself. It wasn’t until much later that I experienced solidarity's power in such matters. We scrutinize and scowl at these stories from afar, my former self included, with an air of separateness and superiority until we experience them ourselves. For, of course, this could never be our story. But then it is, and now it is. Other women sharing their sacred stories were the most significant to me in the healing years - confidants who embraced me with the most profound empathy and stood and breathed in front of me with their scars that were once wounds. And my mentor of many years who held hope when I couldn’t and taught me how to give that to myself. Over the years, I have often asked myself if I would ever be free - truly free - from the psychological, emotional, physical, and spiritual damage that had occurred. Would my wounds heal? Would I always have some adaptation in my body from holding my emotions in a protective posture? Or could I get it out and be released? Would my stress response and anxiety always be easily heightened? Would my PTSD symptoms ever go away? Would I ever trust myself again? Trust another again? Would I always be startled by loud noises and glass shattering? Would “normal” ever be normal again after being exposed to such severe abnormalities? Would I ever forgive myself for how small I became during that time? Would the anger, confusion, disorientation, sadness, and grief abate? Would the dark nights ever end? Would I ever be held again, be myself again, or was I changed forever? The thing about liberation is that it can seek justice that doesn’t arrive. I was in a relationship with Dr. Jekyll, who hid the evil Edward Hyde, his intimidation tactics, wildly premeditated orchestration of lies, manipulation, and gaslighting. A part of me wanted clarity until the truth was true, and my mind could unfuck the mindfuck and rest again. Don’t wait for clarity that is never coming. Some of us must live big lessons to break patterns and cycles of this magnitude, even to believe again that it’s possible. But let me be clear—no woman, no person, wants to live these types of lessons. If you understand nothing else from this essay, understand that. If you are one of the lucky, privileged ones to sit on your throne of judgment when hearing these stories, you don’t understand. You don’t understand that what you’re misunderstanding is not the woman or victim in the story, but it is yourself. That’s the harshest, blindest truth. Another truth about this all-too-common story is that the parts of the victim stuck in that situation do not belong to the public to dissect. That’s her burden to bear. And it will be. In actuality, each individual walking through abuse is trying to stand up and say, “This happened. It is real. I am alive. Please breathe with me. Please stand there near enough so I can see what it looks like to stand in a reality I am rebuilding, in a self I am reconstructing, in a world I am reimagining. Because if I hear you breathing, I might breathe too. And if I see you standing, I might pull myself up, too. And, eventually, I’ll be in my body again—I’ll be able to feel again. Not surviving, but piercing through my life again.” For the victims, I’m going to be honest with you: the meandering process of recovery is ultimately up to you. It’s your responsibility. Therapists, books, podcasts, and support groups can help but can’t heal you. You have to heal yourself. You have to accept the victim's role to let it go. You have to feel—to struggle through the feelings. It’s daunting and scary. You’ll want to give up. If you have people in your life who are stuck in their shallowness while you’re trying to go to your depths, let them go and let them be. Pivot and seek the sources and people to show you how to stand and breathe. You have to start thinking for yourself now, caring for yourself now, and loving yourself now. But trust me, you’ll need people, and you’ll need to find them. You don’t have to be strong; you can be gentle with yourself. Often, the intelligent, empathetic, and enlightened part of a person gives Henry Jekyll a second chance to work on himself and make things right. I must acknowledge a narrow and perilous line between the resolvable, troubled soul and the soul that spills over into malice, rigidity, maladaptiveness, and steadfast personality. Most people never encounter evil and retain their naivety, while victims lose this innocent vantage point of the world. It’s not the victim’s job to rehabilitate or reintegrate anyone but herself. Our stories are pervasive, and we come from all walks of life. On March 9th, 2021, The World Health Organization published data collected from 158 countries reporting almost one in three women globally have suffered intimate partner violence or sexual violence. That’s nearly 736 million women around the world. We need more voices of survivors—more voices of the human conditions we let hide in the shadows for fear of discovering it in ourselves. I lost parts of myself during that time with Hyde. The destructive consequences of this style of person are astounding, and the impact on my connection to myself and others was among the most challenging aspects to overcome. The rage that boiled in Hyde resulted in outrageous displays of public humiliation, screaming, and, on one drunken occasion, physical violence. If Hyde had called me a stupid bitch before grabbing my neck, throwing my head against a stone wall, and my body across a room to smash into a bedpost and break my ribs while we were in the United States, I would have been able to call the authorities. And I would have. But because we were in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country, vindication occurred through the fog of shocking circumstances I didn’t deserve. After years, Hyde popped up in a picture on social media. He plays soccer on the same fields I used to play on with joy in the absence of hypervigilance. It’s that disparity in fairness that can grip us in bewilderment. I’m on another path now—one where my trust and love are respected. I remain open and available for peaceful, constructive ways of being, relating, participating, and having a voice. I hope you’ll embrace my sacred story with sensitivity and compassion as I offer it to those in need so we may come together and let her stand up and live.

Date, around Time I went on a date with him (a correctional officer), thinking it was an opportunity to become acquainted with him as a friend, but it turned out to be a horrific night which I would only remember parts of. He picked me up in his white pickup truck; it smelled of cologne and winterfresh gum. Two smells I will never forget. He took me to a dirty dive bar without asking where to go. I already didn’t feel safe, and I regret that I never said anything to this day. I got my first drink, rum and coke. Keep in mind that my glass was smaller than a coffee mug. We started talking, and he told me he used to be in the army. He seemed to be trying hard to persuade and impress me, but I was not falling for it. The taste of my drink was no different than I had before. I was nearly done with my first drink when he asked if I wanted another, and I agreed. He returned with another and asked if I wanted to play darts, and I again agreed. I took one drink of my second rum and coke he brought to me and started to feel dizzy, tired, and weak. I didn’t say anything yet. I continued with darts. By then, he gave me a third drink, I don’t remember if I even had a drink of it. I do recall saying, ‘I wanted to go home,’ and we left out the side door to his white pickup truck. I don’t remember getting inside the front seat, let alone the backseat. My eyes flickered open and closed, waking me to see him face-to-face. Raping me, I am frozen in shock. Disgusted by what he was saying to me. When he was done, he threw a towel on me and told me to ‘clean up.’ He tossed my shoe onto my nude body and said, ‘Now I will take you home.’ Twenty degrees outside, I was nude in a familiar parking lot. I got dressed. He took me home; no words were exchanged. Once I got in my house, I went straight into the shower and cried. I was a virgin He took my innocence from me that I can never get back. Date 2, around Time 2 Sitting in my office, He came in unannounced and sat down in a chair by the door. I looked up, feeling uneasy. I asked him, ‘what was he doing?’ He replied as he got up from his chair, ‘I know you want this cock.’ He blocked me between my seat, the wall, and my desk, I had nowhere to go. He unzipped his pants and grabbed a handful of my hair, and forcefully give him oral sex. This time I remember the whole brutal rape. Pushing, gagging, and choking only made him put more force and hurt upon me. His strength was unbearable. When it was over, he threw a piece of winterfresh gum at me and left. Crying, feeling dirty, guilty, and shameful, I put myself together and completed my day. Violated, not only once but twice, by the same guy. Once outside of work and the other inside work. After the first attack, I was broken inside, but the second attack really damaged me. If I told anyone, no one would believe me because he was a very well-liked person at work, and I was just a caseworker. My sisters were the first to know about the first assault in Date 3. I held back on the second as I felt they wouldn’t forgive me for allowing it to happen again. Date 4 I told my sisters about the second assault. I went to internal affairs, who sent me to detectives. They supposedly did an investigation, but boys will boys, and where I worked, they all stick together. The DA dropped the case. Date Range I now moved out of that county because of the triggers and the hope that my PTSD will get better with time. I feel stronger I told my story and know I am a survivor. I hope my story will become someone else’s survival guide. This happens when you are a strong, outspoken woman at the Location County Jail in Location, Pennsylvania.

I always thought I'd never be married to an abuser, then I was. I didnt understand how i fell for it. But I did. That's when I realised I wasnt tricked. I wasnt fooled. It was calculated, planned and organised. It wasnt clumsy, it was methodical. Healing has been like letting a fresh wound bleed, messy. Chaotic. But needed. To realise I am still whole, still loveable, still wonderful... while carrying so much.

He was charismatic, charming, romantic, and seemed soulful. I was young, had just been hit in my previous relationship, cheated on, and felt alone. He was supposed to be someone to get over my ex & I ended up pregnant. Within the first month I had a hand sized bruise on my shoulder, had been held down, had my phone smashed & thrown into a fish tank. I was told if I said anything to anyone I wouldn’t live to say anything else. He cheated on me throughout our entire relationship. He put me down. Told me I wasn’t good for anything. He hit me. Punched me in the face until my tooth broke through my lip. Tried to strangle me. Pulled a gun on my family members. I got rid of dogs I had because I didn’t want them to be abused. I gave birth to a little girl & he held her and hit me. I left that night. I came back to the house days later & thought he was gone. I needed her clothes, her diapers, etc. he was there and pulled a knife towards me. I called the police and he was arrested. He got out and at one of his visitations raped & hit me. FINALLY after 7 years of him reaching out to me after every new relationship he enters, he is leaving me alone. I may have left the situation, but the trauma, the pain, the distrust is still there. The girl I was, was replaced with a shell of who I used to be. The PTSD, the depression, the anxiety still affects me & always will. But knowing my daughter has never known the man he is. The man who he will always be. That’s what keeps motivated. I broke the cycle. It did end with us.

Hello, Name, and I am a domestic violence survivor reaching out in hopes of sharing my story to raise awareness and help protect other women and children. After enduring severe domestic violence, and my kids and I being kidnapped ..  I finally saw justice when the defendant in my case was found guilty and sentenced to 60 years in prison. While that conviction brought accountability, it did not end the impact of the abuse on my life or on my children’s lives. The violence we survived changed everything. My children witnessed trauma no child should ever experience, and we were forced to leave our home and everything familiar to start over in order to stay safe. The aftermath of abuse has affected our emotional well-being, stability, and ability to rebuild a sense of normalcy. I am sharing my story not for sympathy, but to bring awareness to the realities of domestic violence—especially how it affects children long after the court cases end. Survivors often escape with nothing, and rebuilding requires support, safety, and resources. Link If you are interested, I am willing to speak openly and honestly about what we endured, the legal process, and what life looks like after survival. My hope is that by telling our story, we can help save lives and bring awareness to the importance of protecting women and children. Thank you for your time and for the work you do in bringing important stories to light. Link Sincerely, NamecontactDomestic Violence Survivor

As I walk this journey that I never thought I would, I am reminded of what I am thankful for. My kids, parents, sisters, brothers-in-law, nephews, nieces, and true friends. The way these people have held me up when I have fallen has been incredible. I used to be worried about what people thought of me, mostly the lies that have been said. Everyone told me, people who truly know you, know that none of it is true. They are right. Why would I want anyone in my life that could believe it anyway? I guess it hurts to think people who said they were family and friends believe it. But I have to remind myself, they also believe he is a good person, so their judgment is way off. I am a domestic violence survivor. I will say it louder for the people in the back... I AM A DOMESTIC VIOLENCE SURVIVOR. For 17 years I was beaten off and on. No, he didn't beat me every day, and yes, he would go months without raising a hand. I probably had a least 3 concussions, too many black eyes to count, I couldn't even begin to count how many times I have been punched in the head and face, and my jaw has been broken (not medical confirmed but when you can't bite down for weeks, your jaw doesn't line up and your teeth were separating and now crooked, it is broken), and dislocated once, a knee injury that lasted months, burned, spat on, head split open twice where I lost some much blood I am almost passed out, broken/bruised ribs, too many bruises on arms and legs to count. When he was in an episode, the fear I felt was like no other. I have to say going to sleep at night was the worst, not knowing if I would wake up in the morning by being beaten to wake. It is a strange feeling that you are happy when the bruise can be covered by clothes or think why can't he punch me somewhere other than my jaw so I can eat? But, I have to say the mental and verbal abuse was just as bad. I have been accused of everything under the sun. I have been called every name in the book. I have been accused of stalking him, tapping into his phone, bugging our wifi, and putting cameras in our home to communicate with "my boyfriend". When I picked clothes to wear, he was always in the back of my brain of what he thought. I didn't wear a skirt or dress to work for 17 years because one night he told me it was easy to access as he pushed me into the tub and beat me. The color and style of my underwear .. l did wear anything lacy during the week. I got nervous any time my phone rang or a text. I blew off my former supervisor every administrator day for lunch because I didn't want to have to tell him I went out to lunch with a man. I stopped eating lunch with my friends in the break room because of his accusation that I was sleeping with my co-worker. I have been accused of having an affair at every job I have had. Why, because I never went anywhere during the evenings or weekends. I have taken 2 lie detector tests at the beginning of my marriage. I passed both but he would tell you now I didn't. He is good at rewriting history. The ironic part, he is the one who cheated. He was in love with an affair and continued for months. And confessed to sleeping with two other women he worked with. They say their accusations are the closest thing you will get to a confession. I guess that I why I was accused of sleeping with coworkers. And I forgave him. But I now know the main reason I did was that I was afraid. Afraid to do all on my own. Afraid to go back to my parents who had been right about him all along. Afraid of the unknown and what my life would look like. And I now know I had nothing to be afraid of. My family embraced me and helped heal me. Those fears don't go away the minute you are safe. I realized this when I walked into the parking lot of our son's soccer game when he was arguing with me. We both walked between two SUVs where no one could see us with him behind me and my first thought "he is going to hit me". But this time my second thought was "If he does, I am calling the police". He has stalked me to the point my brother-in-law made me get pepper spray. After a year and a half of therapy, I realized he started grooming as soon as our relationship started. Telling me he loved me 3 weeks into our relationship should have been the first red flag but at 20, I just didn't see it. I realized I never was in love with him, I was in love with the lie of who he wanted me to believe he was. He is really good at projecting himself as a good person, he has fooled many many people. But more people saw him for who he really was and now aren't afraid to tell me. See what people who are not in an abusive relationship don't understand is there is a trauma bond that forms. Trauma bonding makes you psychologically addicted to your abuser. This explains why trying to stop contact feels like you are coming off a drug . ... Trauma bonding involves cycles of abuse - following an abusive incident or series of incidents, perpetrators will often offer a kind gesture to try to recover the situation. When he came out of an abusive episode, he was the sweetest man. It was all a lie. It is hard to know that your life was one big lie for 21 years. I feel like it isn't a new chapter I am entering into; it is a completely new book. I am not the person I was for 21 years. I am fearless, strong, independent, and a better person. I am happier now than I have ever been in my life. I can breathe for the first time. I have my power back. I know I will make mistakes but it is a freeing feeling to know that it is ok. No one is going to scream at me or put me down. To know I can grow and thrive without someone trying to stop me. This new book is going to be an amazing ride and I can't wait to read it.