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I would like to help women ( or men) learn that you can overcome the difficulty of leaving Domestic Violence and start life , in my case, for the 1st time I was "married" for 20 years in the DV and have been out for 13 years. It is a difficult process, but worth the effort to give yourself your life.

I went through this kind of thing twice in my lifetime. Once as a child and once as an adult too. I know I'm not alone. There are many who have had this twice sometimes more in a lifetime mine the first one happened when I was 6 to 8 years old. The second one I was much older in my late thirties. Having been through it twice in a lifetime takes allot out of you but somehow you persevere even if you don't think you can. My adult one happened in my last foster home.Tt happened over 4 years I was trying to keep the peace in my home. And he took advantage. I want everyone to know I'm ok now I live in a better place now. Just sometimes it overshadows me. And I know it's not my fault. Thanks for listening.

I grew up in an emotionally and mentally abusive household. I never knew when I’d be in trouble next, and the feeling of walking on eggshells created in me a need for hyper-vigilance. I became angrier the older I got, and when I was 17, I ran down the steps to try and intervene when my dad was yelling in my mom’s face. He chased me up the steps, and I was able to lock myself in my room. Even though I was never smacked in my face or punched or even beat, I was spanked within an inch of my life. Quite often I could barely sit, and it really did a number on me. I swore I’d never get married if this was what marriage was all about. I am very thankful I was able to break that cycle, and today I am married to a very passionate, loving husband who promised to keep me safe and has kept his promise. There is light at the end of the tunnel. You can break that cycle of abuse. It has taken me years to try and undo the damage that was done to me, and even now, I still struggle with the PTSD and automatic jumping if someone steps too quickly or raises their voice a bit too loudly. But I am thankful I have been able to raise my own kids much differently and show them how healthy relationships work.

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

In 2007, my ex-husband drove over my foot. He did it out of rage. What followed was something I’ll never forget: ➤ I called the police. ➤ They issued a temporary restraining order. ➤ I went to court, determined to protect myself and my toddler. ➤ He stood before the judge, pleaded, and promised he’d never do it again. ➤ The court believed him. They let him go. The restraining order wasn’t extended. And just like that, I was left to pick up the pieces on my own. I’ve shared parts of my story about surviving domestic violence before. But this part? I’ve kept it to myself. For years, I was ashamed of this story. Not because of what happened to me—but because the world taught me to be ashamed. To be quiet. To “move on” as though resilience meant silence. But here’s the truth: Resilience doesn’t come from silence. 𝐈𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩. This experience, as painful as it was, taught me lessons I couldn’t learn any other way: ➤ I learned how to find my voice, even when no one wanted to hear it. ➤ I learned how to advocate for myself, even when the system failed me. ➤ I learned that survival isn’t the end goal—thriving is. But let’s be clear—this isn’t just about my story. It’s about a culture that protects abusers, excuses toxic behavior, and leaves survivors to fend for themselves. The same culture that let him walk away is the one that: ➤ Enables toxic leadership in workplaces. ➤ Silences survivors of sexual assault and domestic violence. ➤ Ignores the mental health toll of these experiences. 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 “𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡.” Leadership isn’t just about titles or decisions—it’s about creating a world where: ➤ Survivors feel safe to speak up. ➤ Toxicity is called out, not tolerated. ➤ Resilience is celebrated, not silence. Some stories stay with you until you’re ready—today, I’m ready. Let it end with us. NO MORE Week 2025 hashtag#nomoreweek2025 hashtag#SayNoMore, hashtag#EndTheSilence hashtag#nomoreweek from LinkedIn post: link

We were together for 14 years, married for 11. He still tries to mount a case to take our child away from me even two years out from our initial separation and divorce. His tools: manipulation, confusion/ chaos, coercion, projection, isolation, financial insecurity, doubt, guilt and insecurity, embarrassment and lies. Although he had no friends (biggest red flag ever) he did not act alone. His family actively participated to undermine my sanity, going so far as trying to get me to sign a power of attorney to one of his family members because they “only wanted to help and do what was best for our child”. Not true. Their family motto, “Don’t embarrass the family.” Which translated into do as we say, don’t complain and tell no one because who would believe you anyway. Did he ever hit you? Did he ever threaten your life? How exactly did he hurt you? Didn’t you yell at him? You seem so unstable. I’m sure he didn’t mean it. He was probable in a bad mood/having a bad day/ needs more sleep/ some other lame excuse. You married him so he’s your problem now. Not anymore he ain’t! Thankfully, I am crawling out of that mindset. I am out. I am free. Does he still harass me? Yes. Is it hard as hell out here? Oh, yes it is at times, painful even. I’ve cried oceans of oceans. But thankfully, I feel my strength thanks to kind worlds or actions from many people who did one simple thing….they believed me. When I talked about what I was going through, they believed me. When I talked about what he said to me or what his family said to me or our kid, they believed me. They gave me the courage to start believing in myself. They helped me recognize my strength and help my kid see their strength. It’s been over two years since this process of transformation started. I breathe better and find joy in life again. I am not the terrible person they say I am. I stopped believing their lies and started questioning them. They will not silence me. They will not terrorize me. The kindness I put out into the world and the kindness I receive is my fuel. I am strong, I am brave, I am capable, I can do anything because I am not alone. I will do whatever it takes to always remember I NEVER have to go back to that kind of life, ever. I deserve better. Later Troll.

Freedom is Glorious I've been working alone the past two days, and instead of taking out the scissors and cutting my hair, I took out an old CD of pictures and remembered how far I have come in this journey. I found pictures of the animals I left behind so very long ago ~ his pets who were like children to me ~ I teared up at their precious faces and remembered how much I love and miss them every day. Then I found some pictures of me taken in my old rental office on campus the night before my 41st birthday. And I was amazed at how clear and blue and full of life my eyes were in each picture.  The weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  I stood tall and proud.  The color was back in my face, and my face was fuller because I had finally started to regain the weight I had lost when my food intake was so limited on the weekends. My eyes sparkled in those pictures.  I could not stop staring at myself.  The pictures were proof that I was free.  That I was me again.  I looked at the CD and reached for a snack.  And I thought about how I can eat whatever I want now.  There is no watchful eye mentally counting my calories ~ keeping the cupboard bare.  I am no longer charged $20 to eat a home-cooked meal.  I am no longer ridiculed for not cooking that home-cooked meal myself. I can do what I want, say what I want, feel what I want, wear what I want.  I am not some dress-up doll used to cloak in leather to be propped up on the back of a motorcycle for the whole valley to see ~ no I am middle-aged now, often without make-up, and finally comfortable in my own body not to care if I am not perfect. Because perfect was never good enough anyway. I can speak again.  I have a voice.  I can have an opinion on anything I want.  I see my family again on all holidays.  I do not have to lie about where I am living.  Where I am going.  What I am doing. There is no shame anymore.  No more secrets.  Even the writing I am doing has eliminated the secrets from the people I care about the most. I think about all of these changes as I ponder what it is like for him to be sitting in jail right now.  To have his freedom finally taken away from him.  To be told what to do, when to do it.  And to be isolated from family and friends. It took the news of his jail sentence to wake me up to what I had blocked out for so long.  To bring those horrible memories back up to the surface in dreams, flashbacks, and fleeting moments of sadness.  To finally realize that I had to write down my truth, or they would never go away.  He would still be controlling me in my head through those nightmares, those flashbacks.  He would still be present in my life if I did not get rid of him by writing down all the ugliness of our time together and sharing it with the world. He never wanted me to be a writer.  He made fun of my dream every day.  And it hit me today that the irony of my life story is that one of the biggest stories of my life will now be about him.  And maybe there will come the book or the screenplay out of all of this ugliness that I have shared with the world.  Because if you can skim off the scum, if you can sand down the rust, beneath the surface of all that pain and sadness is the beauty that was once there ~ that was once my life ~ that was once me. Beneath the surface lies the freedom that never really left my side.  Freedom was waiting in the distance for me all along.  Freedom was God taking care of me through the whole ordeal and seeing me through to the other side.  Where life is precious and pure and sweet. Freedom led me to a new life where I can now help others as they had once helped me. Freedom came with its own price ~ the scars beneath the surface that may have scabbed over ~ in order for me to survive. But those scars are my battle wounds for my freedom.  I paid the price for a new life.  I earned my freedom.  I survived.

I grew up in violence- my neighborhood, my school, my home. I grew up with constant insults and indignities because of poverty and a violent brother. So when I met Jack when I was 22 and he was a bully, dismissive, insulting and emotionally difficult for me, it all felt normal. But, as I got older I knew I had to get away from him. He limited my relationships and always found ways to subvert my work while belittling me for not keeping jobs. I tried to leave many time but he bulleyed, frightened, pleaded, coerced, apologized, threatened until I took him back. Then when I was 68 and he was 69 he left to have a “selfish bucket list fling” with a former girlfriend. He expected to come back after 2 months. He didn’t believe me that I was divorcing him and signed the papers without reading them. It has been 2 1/2 years and I am still fighting the battle in court to actually get the court ordered alimony that is coming to me. I am not homeless. In fact I live in the home we bought and remodeled. I have a very good life. He had me convinced that I would be back in poverty if it were not for him. I feel more well off than I ever did with him. Plus, his negativity, meanness, and general bad behavior are out of my life at last. I wish I had had the courage and strength to leave years ago and save myself and my children from his abuse. But I am happy to heal my relationships with the people I love who he kept away from me for all those years.

It's no laughing matter. I'm no laughing matter. I don't know which is worse, the abuse I endured at the hands of someone I knew for 10 years or the utter joke it became for the city that it happened in. The joke, the filth I became. My head has never been clear enough to get out exactly what I'm trying to because it's filled with so many unanswered questions and the knowing that I could of been saved from years of pain, suffering, had anyone including the authorities taken what was happening to me seriously. I was married 6 weeks when I discovered the guy I married was nothing like he said. In fact he had been spending his nights on the computer and to this day it haunts me at the content he was watching. The next year I was subjected to numerous beatings. Twice his own apartment complexes managers either refused to give me help or lied to the police on his account. I was abused in my sleep , I suffered a tbi, no one would help me. He was so sick that beating on me made him happy and would try and get me to do things to him. I didn't know what to do because like i said no one including the police took me seriously or to this day 10 years later as I try to file on him,they are more concerned with "why did you go there" or "you're the one who didn't get her way in a domestic violence incident. " If this wasn't enough I moved over 3000 miles away and was told by City law enforcement that I now am responsible for their lies to social security. I had just got a home after swelling on both sides of my brain and had been trying to work on what happened to me however I took it very personal and I tried to end my life and ended up losing my home. I feel like I paid to be raped, I feel dirty, I feel useless. Over the 10 years since I have contacted City law enforcement hundreds of times a year, no joke, hundreds and nothing. They are still refusing to do anything to him even though I sit in my house with documented facts on what he did to me but no one cares to see it. It's emotionally destroying me, it hinders ever aspect of my life. I've had rape crisis case managers try and get answers, I've filled out every paper the Mayor's office sent me. I will get my hopes up and see an email from them and then like always, nothing. No one should be abused is what I say but this feeling of I deserved it consumes me and I'm always trying to explain why I don't. I'm obviously not through the healing process but I want what happened to me out there. I was never aware of the true evils in this world. Never knowing that the police too can cause so much pain but literally laugh it off. I Pray I find the answers I'm looking for. All I can say is my Faith in God was the only thing that kept me able to go. I was robbed, walked until my feet bled so much trauma that I know one day there will be peace. I do know together WE can and I'm so grateful to my AA group and other places I go. Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring.

I wanted to start this assignment with a thought out and solid reflection that I can use as a milestone for my own memory in a visual form as my life’s purpose growth milestone. In my initial Learning Plan I chose to be committed to gain my knowledge by focusing on the Individual Meaning-Making plan. After reflecting on my first journal and the feedback from Discussion 5, I realized that my growth as a disruptor happens most deeply, emotionally, and internally/or spiritually, when I have legitimate space and time to sit with the texts and take personal inventory privately before sharing. This takes much awareness and consistent action from your body. Being in a state of observation, is exhausting at times, due to outside distractions/ & forces. As I grew in wisdom the patterns were hard to ignore, the synchronicities where hard to ignore, and the life force behind these supernatural and teaching moments became energetically strong that a coincidence would have been an understatement to the Creator of the Universe, and to ourselves. Give yourself the opportunity and love with daily purpose filled time for 30 minutes for 1 month, uninterrupted and free of digital distraction. Grounding meditation can restore and give your nervous system a reset and time back that you slacked off in the past. Many growing mature individuals prior to having healthy boundaries with positive reinforcements in their daily habits and lives needed to experience the lesson firsthand. These life lessons/ street smarts aka spiritual wisdom is transfigured for us to understand and process into words for teaching the people of our communities, as they hold the generations new leaders. A 6-month worth of 40 hour work period can accomplish the equivalence of 1 month of endless doom scrolling can. The focus and passion behind your self love is enough frequency and energy to shift a multitude of things in life as whole by showing up for thyself, first, naturally and wholesome. Healing takes place once we recover the pieces we allowed to be scattered by the unwanted distractions media leads us to believe are grandiose. This journal marks my progress in that commitment, moving from identifying the falsified labels of Journal 1 to unmasking the systemic roots that create those labels and life threatening constructs/ systems in the first place. In Journal 1, I explored Eli Clare’s medical model and how it exiles us from our own bodies by treating ourselves as broken parts. While we can be hurt from trauma and emotionally inducing experiences that strike our nervous system to go in defense. Its our body’s way of playing tricks on our minds, it does what it needs to survive and defend its vulnerabilities from reoccurring experiences, they may not always be healthy or positive either. But nonetheless, the innocence of your experience shifted, and the defenses are not malfunctions. We are not robotically “wired” like that, so broken we cannot be. Recovering the lose wire and restoring it can fix the little glitch in our thought processes when it comes to how we see ourselves confidently. You can say it took me going through my own recovery, to be in recovery, in a way for me to really understand it by. I went through life in a repetitive cycle, same spirit behind a person, different person/ body. At times the spirit and force was stronger than before, strengthening the skill/lesson. I had a hard time letting go of people in emotionally dependent way. Withholding care and affection from a child does tremendous disturbances to their brain development, temporarily having a negative affect in their efficacy in adulthood. The keyword was temporarily, because I want to emphasize the part I say, we can not be broken, as a human, as a spirit, as a person, as a live being. This week, I am expanding that lens. I see now that the exile isn't just a doctor’s note but rather it is an environmental reality. When I applied to college I did so only for the purpose of understanding if I was really “trippen” and psycho. My abuser and ‘partner’ roommate, baby’s dad sitter, had done enough damage to me verbally in what was already 3 years together. I was sharing with him a life altering and dark season of my life, I was 16, mom was in prison, and I was living in the home my dad worked hard for to psy off in 15 years what should have been the typical 30 year mortgage plan, without my dad, she divorced him with forged documents and signatures. Her friend Friend's namestayed there in the time she was gone, he was there to “hold down” the place while she was gone and my dad kicked out. I had my boyfriend at the time, over when a fire explosion came from the gas dryer.It took 3.5 hours and 2 attempts to shut it out completely. Well fast forward, I was sharing that with him and last thing I had said was “I would hate to ever experience that again cause WTF”. I was on my way to bed with the kids in their room and I had gotten a wiff of something on fire or burning. I mentioned to Namewhat I was smelling and was met with a dismissal of “your trippen I don’t smell shit”.. I did my due diligence and checked if I left any candles on to make sure my end was clear. Nameis a cig smoker, the least he could of done was give me the benefit of the doubt and at least say “ill check outside” or something reassuring, considering the ending of our conversation. Lame excuse of a man who says they love me but meet it with actions like that. I wake up to my daughter crying as the smoke comes out from underneath her crib and floorboards. It was God’s way of giving me the warning signs before knowing there was a war I was about to go head on with. I wasn’t so aware then, but surely that awakening was enough to clarify that I wasn’t trippen, he is dangerous, and needs his ass whooped. The cig he last smoked started the fire, the very action I told him is ugly to the environment and on himself, was the problem. “Flickering your cigarette butts like that is a big fuck you and is ugly to the environment” earned me the nagging bitch plaque. But was I wrong? His boy ego couldn’t allow him to simply humble himself to see where he went wrong on many levels. And my kids, man that was really the deal breaker for my heart and mind. I didn’t have the role model so I became my role model. I sat in the hotel room that same day after a long morning of betrayal and recovered myself and applied to college in 2022 to see the actions behind the “something has to change and give, cause aint no fucking way this is in my imagination or coincidence” self-revelation. I learned to unlearn so I can understand without barriers and prejudices. I needed to come back and save that young girl in me and validate her when she had none of her own. The courses ive taken over the years and the time gaps in between align in sync with the life changing experiences I have during those seasons. With Minneapolis’ events, and my personal events, and the timing of the courses, the time couldn’t be better. My voice is being used in a time that matters for many on a multitude of levels and dimensions. With the easing of ice pressures and outside noise, to the epstieen files and charges taking place, justice being served, it makes me happy because I too receive that justice. Namegets angry with knowing this. He asked even “why are people talking about it so much anyway? What are they really going to do about it, cus it wont be much” as I was tying my Discussion 5 draft about silencing, as it happened in real time. This is what I mean by my curriculum is in sync with my life, allowing me to get the most out of it. We cannot have a healthy Spirit inside the vessel if the vessel is submerged in a toxic ecosystem. The root of our ick or that intuitive nudge that something is wrong or slightly off is found in the Imperialist Logic of Extraction (as discussed in the works of Jensen and LaDuke). Just as the medical model extracts our authority over our health and wellness, our economic and controlling systems extract life from the biotic community for the sake of falsified luxury. We are told to take personal responsibility for our health while the man-made dictating systems poison the very air and water we rely on and deserve. Professor, You asked how we dismantle these systems and my answer comes from a perspective of a uncorrupted mother and a student of life. We as a society must stop accepting random chance as an excuse for systemic suffering. The molestation and ritualistic sacrifices from my ‘caregivers’ was not enough of an excuse for me to give up on myself. The robbery that took place within me is what I needed to ignite the flame in my heart and do what many wont do. If they don’t do it for themselves, how can I be sure they can do it for me. Is my new motto and affirmation. When a specific group is consistently marginalized or poisoned, it isn't a flipped coin, it is a weighted die. We dismantle the system by refusing the repetitive washed up apologies that have no action behind the verbal meaning of what is being spoken from the mouth. This is the slow violence of the systems, expecting us to accept a verbal apology while the environment is still smoldering. (Nixon 2011, Randall 2009) We move away from the arrogant ego of dominance and return to a meekness that listens to the earth by sitting still and listening to ourselves, allowing the Creator to guide our spirits and minds to a higher level of understanding and knowing. To be a disruptor is to stand in our authority and name the truth and expose lies. We are not masters of the nature, we are members of it. True healing is the return to our nature and doing so unapologetically. By following those little nudges from the Creator/universe, I am learning to slow down and recognize that my wellness is tied to the wellness of the whole. My authority isn't about power over others, but about the power to stay authentic to the truth and stewarding it righteously. This journal is my manual guide to what it looks like to act with effort as I reclaim my identity from the language and false beliefs of oppression and to stand with the truth in the name of love, because loves also needs love in order to heal and recover from this.

i want justin baldoni to know how proud dv people are of him. i can tell how much he cares and this movie he made has impacted him. my father is a very verbal and physical abuser and my mom left after 20 years and im forever grateful and im so glad they made this movie. thank you justin.

No more feeling shame. The shame is my abuser's to bear. I was in an abusive relationship 7 years. She would Yell and throw items around the room. Tell me who I can and can't see, and where I could go. She would degrade me by playing on any insecurity I had. If I questioned her motives I was gas lighted to change my way of thinking. She would smack my chest and call it play fighting. She would convince me "I'm the only one who is looking out for you" she monitored where I was and how long I was there. I would hid in the bathroom, because I was terrified of her. She would convince me to cut people out of my life. She would manipulate me emotionally and physically. Everything was on her terms, she loved that I feared her. No more feeling afraid of speaking my truth. #yournotalone

Learning about the different forms and signs of abuse saved me. I never thought I would end up a victim of domestic abuse. My lack of knowledge on what abuse looks like resulted in me falling right into my abusers trap. The five year long relationship began normally, I quickly fell in love with a partner that showered me in compliments and exciting experiences. About 6 months in, the warning signs began to show, and my family expressed concern, but I brushed it off, as I was overall happy with them at the time. Things quickly got worse, and I was isolated from my friends and family. I was subject to frequent criticism and belittling, name calling and being mocked while I cried, fully believing that I was the problem. I was comforted by calm talks from my partner after explosive outbursts, agreeing that things will be better once I learn to do better. Despite my efforts, this never stopped. I was constantly walking on eggshells around them. God forbid I upset them while they were driving, or they would speed and weave through heavy traffic, screaming and slamming their fists on the steering wheel. Then they began throwing things during outbursts. Screaming at me so close to my face I could feel spit landing on it. They angrily grabbed my wrist once, and looking back I see now the progression that was being made toward more physical violence. Resources online and finally reaching out to my family opened my eyes to what was happening. I felt brainwashed, and it took time to fully accept it for what it was. When I left, at one point my abuser stood in front of the door so I couldn’t leave. They yelled and knocked things over. Another form of physical abuse. I am in therapy now, and working through PTSD. I am so grateful for my family and friends, and the support online that gave me the strength and knowledge I needed to get out. I now know that what I went through was not my fault. My abuser was a master manipulator, as most are. Everyone can benefit from being knowledgeable on the many forms of abuse that exist.

This happened back in 2023. I had met this guy through my sister because she had told me that he had seen my picture and had asked about me and wanted to talk to me. At the time I was living out of state, so we were talking and we got together a couple days later. During the time that I was living out of state I had to be on the phone with him 24/7 if he was home and I wasn't at work which should've been the first red flag, but the second red flag should've been when he didn't let me go out drinking with my parents on my 21st birthday and told me I had to be on video chat with him during my birthday party. A couple weeks after my birthday I moved back to my home state to be with him and things were going fine at first. But then things started progressively getting worse, the first job I got when I got back he also got a job there because he didn't trust me being alone. I couldn't go to my therapy appointments alone, I couldn't go to the store alone, I wasn't allowed to have friends but yet he was allowed to talk to other girls, I wasn't allowed to go to work alone when I got a new job even though it was an hour away from where we were living. It eventually got to the point where he had introduced me to a few of his friends over video chat and one night he had gotten drunk and accused me of cheating on him with one of his friends when I was in the other room making a Tik Tok video, we got in a fight and when I was trying to leave he grabbed ahold of my bag and shoved me into the bathtub. As I was trying to leave after that he took my phone and wouldn't give it back to me, he tried breaking it and was doing everything in his power to keep me from leaving the house. When I finally was able to leave and just go for a drive he was blowing my phone up trying to call me and when I went back to the house and decided to sleep on the couch until his mom got back from work he knew I was talking to a friend and he told me to choose between him and the friend. When I went into the bedroom to sleep for the night because I had given up with the fighting he took my phone while I was asleep and blocked that friend which I didn't realize until I left him 2 days later but the following day acted like nothing was wrong except wouldn't offer to buy me anything at the mall even though I was the one that drove us there and paid for gas to get there. When I finally got the courage to leave him it was because I had to go to work one day and as always he forced his way along. When we got to my work I was told that I wasn't needed that day which meant I was able to go home, the only issue with that was that I didn't have enough gas in my car to get home and not enough money to put gas in the car. So I called my mom and stepdad who live in another state and asked for help but told them what was happening and decided that day that I was done with everything. My mom told me that she would only help me if I left him which with the help of her I was able to. After I dropped him off I made my way to a safe location in town and locked my car waiting to be able to go get my stuff, while I was waiting he walked from his house to where I was parked and tried to get me to talk to him. After I finally left for good he was blowing my phone up calling and texting asking if I was seriously leaving.

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

HOW I STARTED MY HEALING JOURNEY by Name My healing journey began after I spent five years in a narcissistically abusive relationship. It was a constant cycle of hot and cold, back and forth, until I finally got sick of the bullshit and chose to walk away for good. In the beginning, I simply sat with my feelings. I reflected on everything I’d endured and allowed my emotions to flow naturally. It’s easily one of the hardest parts of the process, but you have to let those feelings out for the healing to begin. I then moved on to one of the scariest tasks: breaking down my past. When we look at our trauma as one giant mountain, it just feels like a jumbled mess of chaos. By identifying each experience as its own separate event, it becomes much easier to process. To get these thoughts out of my head, I put them on paper. If you’re starting this journey, get a notebook and write down everything as it comes up. Use it as your primary tool. I began with my most recent experience of narcissistic abuse. I dove into podcasts and articles, desperate to understand what had happened to me and how it was affecting my mental health. Once I understood the 'what,' I started researching the 'how'—as in, how do I heal from this? That’s when I discovered the connection to childhood trauma. It’s a major key to the puzzle because we carry those early experiences into our adult lives. There is so much information available; you just have to find the pieces that fit your life. Healing is deeply individual, and you get to choose the path that works best for you."

I’m 56 years old and have spent most of my life trying to understand what happened to me growing up — not just what was done, but what was allowed. My mother didn’t hit me. Her weapons were colder: control, shame, silent punishments, and subtle emotional games that left no visible marks. She taught me love was conditional. If I pleased her, I got slivers of approval. If I spoke out, I was punished or exiled. Even joy was rationed — too much of it and she’d find a way to ruin it. Her moods ruled the house. Everyone learned to tiptoe. She told others she was doing her best. She played the victim so well — struggling mom, too burdened to care. But at home, it was all about control. She’d withhold affection, twist your words, cry on command, and convince you that you were the problem. I internalized all of it. I grew up believing I was unworthy, difficult, broken. Worse, she brought a man into our lives who raped me. I now know she saw things. I remember moments — things she would have had to notice, hear, sense. But she chose silence. Whether out of denial or protection for herself, she turned away. That betrayal has been harder to heal than the abuse itself. Because the person who was supposed to protect me not only failed to — she facilitated the harm. When I became a mother myself, I tried to do better — to break the cycle — but the damage was already seeded. It affected how I parented, how I loved, how I trusted. It fractured parts of me that I’m still putting back together. Even now, my mother continues to manipulate and control. She paints herself as a caretaker, but she makes dangerous decisions. She isolates her dying partner from his loved ones and undermines his medical needs. She is still trying to rewrite the story. Still trying to erase mine. But I won’t let her. I’m writing this because I need it spoken somewhere outside of me. I need to reclaim the truth: I was there. I didn’t imagine it. And it wasn’t my fault. To anyone reading who is still doubting their memory or blaming themselves — I see you. You’re not crazy. You’re not alone. And what happened to you mattered. I survived her. I am still here. And I am no longer silent.

Many times I've wondered how to begin narrating my story, whether I should start from the beginning or when "love had arrived." I could start by saying that I fell in love with the person I thought was my best friend. Wow, it’s supposed that when there’s a friendship of that magnitude, love should be great. Time passed, and years later, that friendship turned into a relationship, which, for my heart, was one of the most beautiful things that had ever happened to me. I flew 1,295 miles from my country to the United States for him, believing that finally, my true love story would become a reality. I knew he had a strong character and was a bit egocentric, something that bothered me, but I always tried to ignore those thoughts with the "sweet gestures" he could have with me. In the third year of our relationship, after discovering an online affair (they were only chatting because they were in different countries), he proposed to me. Shortly after we got married, we bought our first house together. Wow, if we weighed it all out, there were many wonderful moments that turned into sad endings because, according to him, I didn’t do something right, and many times I would repeat to myself, “I need to be better for myself and for him,” but for him, I was never good enough. Little by little, I started to fade. His words and actions took me to the darkest places—depression and anxiety. From there, it got even darker: a fight in the bathroom where he was the only one talking, and I had long ago decided to remain silent to avoid making the problem worse. I remember that night we were sitting on the bathroom floor arguing, and when it ended, we decided to leave the bathroom. I was walking behind him, continuing the argument, and that’s when he decided to push me, making me fall back several feet. I had never felt so vulnerable in my life. Among the physical pain I felt in my body, the pain in my soul was even stronger. He apologized and insisted that he thought I was coming after him to hit him. I insisted that I would be incapable of doing something like that, but once again, I was blamed. Shortly after, the problems in the relationship intensified, and there was more crying than laughing. I blamed the depression, but deep down, I knew it was everything that was happening there. I decided to seek professional help and started working with a psychiatrist. For more than a year, I was in therapy and on medication, and that’s when my awakening began. I’ll never forget the day my therapist said to me, "I want you to do an exercise that I know I shouldn’t ask of you." I forgot to mention that I earned my psychology degree in my home country. She continued, “We’re going to make a diagnosis, but it’s not for you. If I’m right, our therapy is going to change drastically because you’ll have only two options: divorce or couples therapy.” Although she didn’t say it, she was leaning more towards divorce. Her request was, "Let’s diagnose, based on observation, whether your husband is a narcissist. You’ve given me many examples that are raising red flags for me." She managed to get an interview with him, and in the end, we reached the diagnosis: I was married to a narcissist. I had been too ashamed to tell her that a week earlier, I was not only a victim of his physical aggression when he pushed me, but he had also pulled my hair. I had never felt so ashamed of myself until I had to talk about it with my therapist. Her only words were, “Run from there; there’s no turning back.” How grateful I am to her for those words. Today, almost a year after our legal divorce, although this path hasn’t been easy, I feel that I’ve become a much more resilient woman. No matter how difficult the situation is, no matter how much pain you may feel, love doesn’t have to be the excuse to push your limits. I knew for a long time that I needed to leave, and it’s not easy. Finding that strength is not easy, but today I can say that when your love for yourself grows every day, it’s that love that helps you move forward. Losing everything and losing myself to find myself has been the most beautiful experience life has given me. NO MORE. Only you have the power to break the cycle.

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.