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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.

After over a decade, I'm just now coming out of a fog and realizing I've been abused since before we even married. I feel so lost right now. I'm trying to forgive myself, love myself, and gain strength, all while still having to be married to my abuser. I want to leave but don't have the resources to. And I cannot stomach the thought of my children having to suffer even weekend visits with him without me there as a shield. I'm so exhausted. I'm so hurt and angry and sad. He's abused me physically, emotionally, mentally, and financially. I feel so trapped and don't really see a way out for me and my kids. When I watched It Ends With Us, I related so much because I knew exactly how it felt to look back and finally realize what had actually happened. I am just now processing so much that I didn't feel safe enough to even consider was abuse before. It's hard and sometimes I want to hide from it all, but I know the only way to heal and somehow leave is to face what I've been through head on and make a plan to escape.

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.

Children are impressionable. Seeing your sibling mimic the aggressive behavior their parents do to each other and to us can make it seem okay for adults to act like this. Being the punching bag in the family is exhausting. If the parent doesn’t speak to the child that this isn’t okay behavior how will the child ever learn to not behave in this manner? South Asian culture has normalized domestic abuse and violence for so long it’s actually insane when you go to look at tv shows or movies. I can’t wait to move out and leave this toxic environment that I grew up in. Once I establish my career in nursing, I’m packing my bags.

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

I grew up in the region, on a dairy farm. Life was not as it could have been. There was no love just physical abuse from my Dad and emotional abuse from my mom. I had 4 sisters, two are beautiful, the other two manipulative, narcissistic, and cruel. I call them “The Uglies”. They have done so many horrible things to my beautiful sisters and myself over the years it’s disgusting. I have asked The Uglies to leave me alone throughout my life and they have overstepped my boundaries, police officers warnings, a Judges warning and the Attorney General’s. Now on to the current situation they have created. My mom passed away recently and left her 13 great grandchildren a few thousand dollars each. Now it’s important at this point to know that we quietly left our state, because of all the harassment they caused us. I have had no contact with these people for years. So they try to reach us to give my three grandchildren their inheritance. The beautiful’s call me with this wonderful news but the uglies want our address. They try to get the money for us to forward, they won’t have it. So my daughter gives them her work address. The money gets distributed but my grandchildren don’t receive theirs! It was illegally put into accounts for them by one of the uglies husbands, IN HIS NAME as primary. We then received a registered letter saying it wasn’t mandatory that our grandchildren receive it. Well this ones Husband is the former Mayor of the small town this happened in and he knew about it. This is called “Malicious Intent.” Two of my grandchildren are disabled, which takes the crimes they committed doing this from a misdemeanor to a felony. All the other ten grandchildren received their money!!! One of the beautiful’s asked for a copy of-the distribution document, she was refused. One of the uglies couldn’t have children, the other one has 5 grandchildren. The beautiful’s and I believe that their grandchildren received more funds then they should have, or why not disclose the document??? So now one of the beautiful’s have sent my grandchildren the inheritance they were legally to receive and the uglies and their husbands are facing felony charges with what they have done. Why? Why do this to children? Their Grandmother left them a very kind gesture to show she loved and cared. Then these arrogant, ignorant, manipulative, narcissistic psychopaths think it’s funny to do this!!! So like a politician though right, stealing from the poor!!!

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

I married someone who was safer than my home life, but not safe overall. It wasn’t until some maturing kicked in until I realize I was with another abuser. I married a habitual boundary crosser, then I had a baby with my rapist, then I stayed after rape 2, then I stayed after bruise 1. These are all the same person. I wish I made myself safe before seeking safety in someone else. I wish I waited for my brain to set at 25-ish. I wish I didn’t let him convince me that rape 1 was a misunderstanding. I wish I wasn’t financially trapped. I wish the world payed woman to raise their own children versus paying women a different job to pay someone else to do so. I wish men would take the time to get to know and love women, the way we deserve to be loved, instead they trick, abuse, and mock us. I wish I could put in jail, but I cannot be responsible for putting my sons father in jail. He doesn’t deserve to be that kid because I was too ignorant. But most of all, I wish he was the person he convinced me he was, because I’d be happy, my cup would be filled, I wouldn’t be drained, I would be content, I wouldn’t be in survival mode, we’d get to stay a family. As for now, all I have is playing house until my exist plan is ready. Thank you for reading.

I didn't realise until over a year after the separation that the relationship I had been in for almost a decade was abusive. I was confused, I was lost, I doubted every thought and memory I had because that's what I'd been conditioned to do. He used to tell me I had a bad memory, that I remembered the incident wrongly; he would start an argument in the car on the way to what was supposed to be a pleasant gathering with friends; he would criticise me all the time and when I finally snapped and shouted at him to stop criticising, he said I was crazy. He didn't let me sleep a full night for 4 years after our baby was born, I was exhausted, I was extremely anxious about everything. I was in fight or flight mode all the time. The last straw was him shouting at our child all the time because he made a noise, because he made a mess, because of something. I know all this now, but I didn't understand what was happening at the time. I will still second guess myself if anyone vaguely questions my choice or my decision. I was strong before and I lost my voice. I'm fighting hard to get it back but post separation abuse is real and it's difficult when someone is constantly trying to invalidate you and dismiss your concerns. No more. We have to talk about it, join together and eradicate a permissiveness that allows victims to be suppressed and perpetrators to continue unchecked.

It’s difficult to come to terms with being a “victim”., especially if you’re a strong person in your work environment, extended family environment, and community. Who would believe that an outspoken, bold, intelligent, leader in their family (to the outside) who would never stand for anyone around them being demeaned let alone abused in their presence, wouldn’t be able to stand up for themselves to their partner? Seems like an unlikely scenario to most. There are so many various answers to that but my personal answer is common with a lot of victims…my children. Is it fair that, if I (we) leave that they’ll never know their father like they would if I stayed? As a Mother I would do anything for my children, including dealing with things I never would if I didn’t have children. If I leave am I not “strong enough” to just deal with what he says/does? I can’t be weak in front of my children. Fast forward 16 years from the time I left the house with my children. At first, things were amicable because he couldn’t let anyone in on his true self. He couldn’t show what he said and did to me and eventually to one of our sons, for fear of being “found out”. Him finally losing the control he once had over us abruptly ended that facade. One night during his visitation time, my one son sent me a frantic message on a texting app; my son had to make a fake account to text because their father didn’t allow them to speak with me on his time. He told me that “Daddy just beat up ___”, my other son. Thinking maybe he just spanked him I asked a few more general questions, not truly believing what he was saying. It was apparent by his answers that he was not being dramatic or embellishing. I asked if he wanted me to call the police and he said yes, at which time my heart sunk and my mind went to places I shouldn’t admit to in writing. The police and CPS showed up to his house. That was the last private visitation the boys ever had with their father, per a court ruling. For the entire 16 years since I left him, we have been in Family and Supreme Court at least twice each year and have had 13 separate restraining orders against him, his family members, and his new girlfriend. A victim’s advocate went to the court hearings with me for support that I didn’t realize I needed (but I didn’t know how to tell my lawyer no thank you to the offer of help at the time). He continued the mental abuse by attempting to destroy my reputation to friends/family/people I’ve never even met, on social media and in our community. He claimed “parent alienation” and that I was mentally unstable and a danger to the children. The court had previously awarded me 100% physical and decision-making custody/rights but I wasn’t about to put my children’s business on social media to defend myself to people who were too naive to see through his smear campaign. When he no longer had the means to physically or mentally abuse the boys and I, he turned to financial abuse. Refusing to pay child support, canceling the boys’ health insurance (that he was court ordered to provide), and bringing me to court for frivolous and repetitive claims just so I had to take off of work and pay for a lawyer. He told the Judge that if he didn’t get private visitation with his kids he wasn’t paying for them. Needless to say,, the court never awarded him visitation after the assault on our son. For 11 years the boys have had control of speaking with him/seeing him if they chose to and felt safe enough to. They haven’t seen him once and they are now in their 20’s. In realizing that we would never be able to count on him providing for the boys as he ethically should, I returned to college to earn a more sought after degree that had more stability and flexibility than my career at the time. He had told my son at one point that I’d “never be able to take care of them without him”, which ended up being my motivation at the hardest points of earning two new degrees. To illustrate the financial situation, he still owes me over $60,000 in back child support, medical, and college fees but with my new career (and some good old-fashioned hard work and stubbornness) I increased my salary by over $120,000/year; that was 8 years ago. It has never been about money, it will always be about principle and his previous statement basically telling my children I was useless as a parent (merely because of money) without him. I had to prove him wrong. I gained back the control. Control over myself, my boys’ future, and my personal financial situation. It’s hard to leave. It’s scary to run a million negative scenarios through your head of what will happen if you do leave. Will you be able to feed your kids, have a roof over their head, or be able to deal with all the stress without turning to negative coping skills? You can. I did. Millions of single parents have. Is it easy? Absolutely not, not one day of those 16 years has been easy but everyday has been worth it. My boys unfortunately saw a lot of the bad things that went on even when I thought they were shielded from it. They also saw me never give up FOR THEM! I never wanted to be a “single parent” even as a divorced parent. I wanted to co-parent and be cordial at events, no matter the situation. It didn’t end up like that and in the immensely sad words of my then 12-year old son, “he hurt us and doesn’t love us but he did teach me the most important thing in life, what kind of parent not to be”. I felt like a failure in life for picking him to be their father. You may be a victim in part of your story but you’re not a victim in your whole story. Thankfully I’ve learned that “victim” isn’t actually a bad word, it’s a temporary situation. Make a plan to leave, run it through your head 10 times or 100 times, perfect that plan, lean on who you can trust, and safely leave. You’re in control of the rest of your story!

Hello Reader, We are a 5 month survivors of domestic violence. When I say "we" I am speaking for myself and my 3 year old daughter. On date, I met the hardest day of my life. I was assaulted by my ex boyfriend ( my daughters father ) , he punched me three times in my face knocking me unconscious while I was holding my 3 year old daughter in the front seat of his car without a carseat . When I came do he held me hostage for over 2 hours telling me I fell and hit my head . I was brave when this first started and I started recording on my watch instantly. He broke my nose, and left me with multiple bruises , mouth and jaw pain and severe panic attacks and anxiety. What I will tell you is I am stronger then before. He violated the restraining order more than 9 times all which I have proof with recordings, video , etc calling the cops everytime. I will tell you this , I pushed the police and the justice system begging them to help me because I was in fear for my life. This man put a tracking device on my car and refused to leave me alone. I felt bad at first, I had moments of sadness, various panic attacks and anxiety . But one thing I knew is I would protect my daughter at all costs .I fought so hard pressuring my advocate and the justice system that they finally caught him and he is in jail . Your VOICE needs to be heard , you are stronger than you know. You are worthy , loved, and matter very much. Please don't let anyone make you feel otherwise . Do I have moments of sadness? OF course that's my daughters father and I did love him. But I love myself and my daughter more . I found God and know I am worth it and I belong on this earth ..stay strong, stay beautiful and speak up . Find help anywhere you can . 1 quarter is better then 25 pennies . I send you all my love and wish you all make it through this . I am going to go to his sentencing and i will reas my victim impact statement to allow the justice system to hear and feel my pain . You GOT THIS !!! Sincerly , a strong domestic violence warrior/ survivor

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.

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

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

It ended with me. I remember the day my mother slammed my head into the floor until I bled, I was 9. I remember her nails digging so deep into my arm that I hid the cuts and bruises they left, I was 12. I remember my dad protecting me as soon as he understood, I was 14. I remember it because I live it every day, even though it hasn’t happened in 6 years. A survivor is a survivor for the rest of their life, no one gets to take their strength away from them anymore. They know how much it’s worth.

Hello, thank you for taking the time to read and consider Name story. First, I don’t blame Police Departmentor the state of State Namefor anything that has happened, the responsibility for this belongs completely to the state of State Name She met Friend Name 7 years ago when they were both homeless and moved to Second State Name to live with him at his mother’s property. This property is in the middle of nowhere inSecond State Name, their closest neighbors were anywhere from 30 to 60 acres away. He did this to isolate her from her social support systems, which is something many abusers do to manipulate and gain control of their victims. She didn’t know the kind of person he was until she got pregnant, after which he continually tried to emotionally manipulate her into an abortion. He had not wanted children, though he made repeated promises of a life and family to gain her trust and lure her to the property. This is a large part of his cycle, he makes these promises and lures women (typically around the age of 22) to his mother’s property where he becomes possessive, controlling, and abusive. His family knows he does this and that he’s abusive, but they do nothing to stop him and instead enable him. He had done this with a woman before her, but she had realized his true nature before becoming pregnant and fled to safety. Additionally, he is currently attempting to manipulate another 22-year-old woman from Third State Name online and is making these same promises and luring her to the property. After the baby was born, he became increasingly verbally and emotionally abusive toward her and even committed these acts in front of the child at least every other day. She was living in a constant state of fear, and he manipulated this to further isolate her and take control of her life. Once she finally got the courage to leave him, he became highly combative and began using their daughter as a weapon against her. He then manipulated a judge into giving him primary residence with joint (called shared there) custody of their daughter, though she was the one who cared for the baby every day. His mother had gotten him an attorney whileName couldn’t afford one, which is another thing common to abusers using the legal system against their victims. Unfortunately, we have yet to create protections for women who are vulnerable to this form of attack. She got her own apartment, and the child lived there over 95% of the time. He did not adhere to his responsibilities, and if she said anything about it, he would take the child and hide her fromName for a week or two as “punishment”. He would not provide for his child or look after her in any way, and this made it hard for name to complete her college coursework or make money at her job as a Grub Hub delivery driver. He would have a family that had their children taken and then given back by DHS (Third State Name's version of DCS) watch her the few times he did take her, even though they are again under DHS investigation and about to lose their children permanently. The amount of abuse and neglect it took for DHS to become involved with this family is staggering, and their four children will deal with the emotional trauma they’ve suffered for the rest of their lives. This eventually caused her to lose the apartment and made her move back in with him on his mother’s property, which was obviously the goal of his behavior because her only other choice would have been to abandon her daughter with the abuser. His aggressive behavior and demands that she cooperate with his plans got so severe that he began to rape her in her sleep if she refused his advances, and she found out later that he was put in a boarding school when he was 12 after being caught molesting a prepubescent boy. The abuse they suffered eventually caused their child to begin trying to shield her mother from it and she developed severe psychological trauma, to the point where this four-year-old would say things like “I hope my dad kills you” to her mother. She finally gained the courage to seek justice for his abuse and filed an emergency restraining order, and the judge told her that the County Sheriff and DHS would investigate the issue. However, both the Sheriff of County and DHS failed to investigate anything, despite the Sheriff being informed that there are hours of recorded abuse. So, she grabbed everything she could and came to State Name where she had a support system, and then placed a new order of protection against him. Five days later Third State Name had her violently arrested in front of the child for a fugitive Criminal Restraint by a Parent (like State Name's Custodial Interference) warrant, and according to the attorney I got in Third State Namethey are refusing to accept the Order of Protection from State Name I recently reached out to the County Sheriff’s office in response to a request for information I received from the Second County Sheriff’s office as the Order of Protection has not been served in over 30 days and was told by them that they did not need help finding Abuser's Name This refusal to follow State Nameorder is against Title 18 or the United States Code and the Interstate Compact, but they will not directly admit that this is what they are doing. I have proof of all of this, including the recordings of the abuse, the restraining order in Third State Name, and the Order of Protection in State Name and am willing to discuss this with you further. Apparently, Third State Namethinks it’s okay to punish victims and protect abusers, probably to keep their abuse case numbers down. This is a grotesque miscarriage of justice, and I am reaching out to anyone I can to bring awareness to these disgusting actions.

Growing up since a young age I’ve always saw “love” from different views. When I got to high school I met a guy, I was 16 years old when he started to abuse me, I loved him & I thought it was okay.. no one at school believed me either. Everyone was his friend & no matter what I said it didn’t matter. No one understands that it stays with you, & trust me it hurts I didn’t think it would hurt still but you carry it. The pain was real, the scars are real, & I carry them. I was so young & scared, you want to know how many times someone asked me well why did you stay? Why didn’t you leave? I don’t know. I will never know, all I know is that I didn’t deserve to carry this hurt.

For almost 20 years, I was in an emotionally abusive relationship. When we met, I had recently escaped from an abusive relationship. I was extremely vulnerable, and he took advantage of this with love bombing, grooming, and gaslighting. After severe (suicidal) postpartum depression and the birth of my son, I decided to file for divorce; I didn't want my son to believe that this toxic relationship was normal. When I filed for divorce, my then-husband became extremely violent to ‘change my mind’ and used me as a punching bag. I called the police, and now he has a record for his stupidity.

"Bones break. Organs burst. Flesh tears. We can sew the flesh, repair the damage, ease the pain. But when life breaks down, there's no science, no hard and fast rules. We just have to feel our way". -Meredith Grey so beautifully said this. But how do we deal with the aftermath of our story? We just have to allow ourselves to feel everything we don’t want to feel. I spent 7 years of my adult life with a man I didn’t feel safe with. His anger took control. We had a baby together and got married. The night of our wedding, I was standing on the balcony of our honeymoon suite, and I contemplated jumping to the ground below. I should’ve taken that as a sign. Multiple head injuries, emotional trauma, and other invisible wounds were the aftermath of the abuse. I finally decided that enough is enough. I am worthy of love and safety. I am worthy of so much more, and I will not do this anymore. We are getting divorced. I will end this cycle and teach my beautiful little boy that real love is not like that. He will be a better man. It truly does end with us.