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The day I ran from my abuser, I felt an intense urge to turn the car around. My sister’s voice kept replaying through my head. “Catherine, keep your eyes on the road. Don’t look at your phone. Don’t stop.” For five years, I had been raped, beaten, brainwashed, stripped of my identity and isolated from my family and friends. I knew if I turned that car around, I wouldn’t survive. At first, I couldn’t do anything for myself. My sister had to remind me to brush my teeth, bathe and eat. My abuser had controlled everything, and I mean everything. From what and how much I ate to what I wore, how I spoke, and who I spoke to. I didn’t know how to live outside of him and his needs. For years, I had been operating in survival mode. Everything had centered around him, what he expected from me and what would set him off. I was constantly walking on eggshells. The day I escaped, he told me I was pregnant. The only birth control allowed was the pull-out method. Rape is a hard word for me, because I think of it as being physically held down. But he had psychological control over me. I had no agency or choice. I was to abide by his rules or there would be repercussions. Although pregnancy may have been physically impossible because my weight was around 90 pounds, I was still terrified. I was in the South. If I were pregnant, there would be little to no abortion access. Luckily, I was able to get the Plan B pill within 72 hours. In my mid-20s, I was diagnosed with HPV. My abuser had prohibited me from getting health insurance and health care. The domestic violence hotline gave me resources for health care in my sister’s area, a small town in Georgia. None of these resources would take me because I didn’t have health insurance. The only one who agreed to see me was the health department; they only tested for certain STDs and did not perform gynecological exams. Like many women who have been in my situation, I felt lost. I knew I would be going back home to New Orleans for the holidays. Fortunately, I was able to schedule an exam with Planned Parenthood. They were sensitive to my situation and provided me with information and options. Most importantly, the staff treated me like a person. Since I left, my life has gotten much better, but I’m still on edge. Daily, I have traumatic flashbacks and second-guess and dissect most things.. With holistic therapeutic modalities, I’m healing. The only time the police were called was for me to escape. I had told my abuser I was leaving. He held me hostage in a hotel room for a couple of hours to keep me from leaving. I was able to get out once the police arrived. A year and half after my escape, I called to look into pressing charges. The police had never written a report. There was only documentation of the phone call and the time they arrived and left. They told me to file my own report, which at the time of the incident I didn't know about. So, I filed my report. When I spoke to an investigator, he questioned me on why I was looking at filing charges over a year later. I told him that I had dealt with intense trauma where I couldn't even eat and bathe without being told to do so. He said that it was too late, I. didn't have enough evidence, and it would go no where. And when I called back to at least get the report I filed, the woman was dismissive. And they had NO REPORT. Why would I go through a system that enables, ridicules, and disempowers victims? I am still healing and getting back on my feet, and because of this treatment from the very department that is suppose to have my back, I have decided to put it to bed. For now, my focus is on speaking up and helping other survivors.

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

I was hit as a child. I know what a reader of this post expects me to do next is add examples of what could be called ‘extreme’ violence or ‘abuse’. Most people do not equate a ‘pop’ or ‘whapp’ or ‘cuff’ or ‘slap’ or ‘spank’ with domestic violence. We should. For many of us, that first slap from a parent who believes they are committing an act of love...that they are teaching me...that the slap was a ‘consequence’ - was all we needed to find, amongst a definition of loving acts, an understanding of how a person learns, understanding of what is meant by the word ‘consequence’ is physical violence. A good many of us here were struck as children. A good many of those we identify as our assailants were hit as children. I was hit by my adult partner. Blood pouring out of my nose and onto the front of my shirt that third time motivated me to put my hand in the blood and rub it on the front of his shirt and , then, leave. THIRD TIME. We MUST stop accepting adult on child violence.

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

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

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

He would break up with me and then win me back. This went on for over a year. We were staying at a local hotel for the weekend to celebrate his birthday. We got into an argument in public so I went back to the hotel room by myself. I didn’t let him back in the hotel room when he first got back and instead, packed up all of his belongings. Once I let him in, he threw some of his things. I asked him to leave. He got on his phone. I asked him to leave again and he pushed me down onto my back. He proceeded to punch me over and over again in my eye and head. After the first punch, I said “I’m sorry, please stop”. His response was, “so NOW you’re sorry”. When he finally stopped, I immediately ran to the wall and got crouched down, as blood gushed out of my nose. I again pleaded for him to leave as he cussed at me. He did leave after that. He broke my orbital floor in my eye and my finger. I filed a protective order and was granted it for a year.

Leaving my ex was a decision shaped by years of isolation and physical abuse, but the breaking point was when he tried to control my livelihood. He wanted me to quit my job, and when I refused, he didn’t care. Another time, he looked me in the eyes and said, “You’re not leaving this apartment alive,” before laughing. That was the moment I realized—why was I letting this man decide what I did with my life? Why was I letting him determine whether I got to be alive at all? The day I finally left, I called my mom and told her I wanted out. When my ex threatened to throw all my belongings away, I called the police. They gave me five minutes to gather what I could. I grabbed whatever I could carry and walked away. But leaving wasn’t the end—it was just the beginning. He stalked and harassed me relentlessly. Social media messages. Presents left on my car. Showing up at my parents' house. Nonstop calls. I eventually had to change my phone number. Even then, it took me a while to file for a Protection Order because, somehow, I still felt bad for him. Then, after months of no contact, I ran into him at the gym. He made a threatening remark, so I reported it, and he was banned. That set him off. As I left the gym, he tried to run me off the road. I managed to pull into a parking lot where bystanders gathered around me while he screamed. The police arrived and told me I should file for an Emergency Protection Order immediately—something I had put off, thinking I had to wait for regular business hours. I got the order and thought that would be the end of it. But exactly one day after it expired, he showed up again—and this time, he wouldn’t let me leave where I was parked. Panic took over as I desperately tried to get someone’s attention to call the police. Finally, I managed to get to safety, and someone had already made the call. As I started driving home, I realized he was following me again. Instead of going home, I turned back and told the police. They offered to follow me, and as I drove off, I spotted him on the other side of the road. I motioned to the officer, who immediately pulled him over. A few minutes later, the officer called me and said I needed to get another order against him, warning that he was "mentally unwell." He hoped that pulling him over had given me enough time to get home safely. This time, I had to file for a Peace Order, which only lasted six months. He even tried to appeal it—but in the end, it was granted. Looking back, I learned that the most dangerous time for a survivor isn’t during the relationship—it’s when they try to leave. Those months after I walked away were far more terrifying than any moment I spent with him. But in the end, I made it out. And that’s what matters.

My story has a good ending but it took a rocky road to get there. The reason that I wanted to share it is to emphasize the importance to victims of reporting every time to the police, even if one of those times might not go the way you wanted it to go or even if you got embarrassed after you did it. And I don't mean just every time you are hit but every time you think there is a threat of being hit. I am 100% convinced this is what ultimately stopped the abuse that I endured. I got married after I became pregnant when I was 24. The first time I was abused was New Year's Day when I was 25. My husband had gone to a friend's house to watch a football game with other friends and left me home with our baby and the number where he was. When I called the number, a woman answered the phone and got him. I was mad because he said he was going to be with a bunch of guy friends. He told me it was the wife of his friend but when he came home, he took out his embarrassment and anger that I called him there on me and pulled me down by my hair while I was holding our baby. The second instance of abuse happened after we took our baby to The Lion King in the theater and witnessed Scar slap Sarabi. My husband slapped me in the same way on our way home when we fought about him being able to enjoy the movie while I had to be the one to attend to the baby. It was at this point that I sought out a counselor who enlightened me that I was experiencing abuse and referred us to Family Advocacy, a military program for families experiencing abuse. The final instance of abuse in the apartment we were living in happened right before we moved to a new state by the military and was bad enough to leave bruises on my face. A few days before this incident, we had heard a woman screaming in the apartment below ours and called the police to help her. So when I was being abused, I screamed also when my husband was choking me and I think that that neighbor returned the favor by calling the police for me. The police arrived and it was the one and only time that I felt that the police questioned me more than him because I had been drinking. We were living in city, state and I will always remember the police there for being uncaring about what he did to me but they also stopped the abuse by showing up at our apartment. My husband moved before I did and I faced a really daunting decision at that time whether to move with him. I think if my mom had supported me staying back with her, I would have done that but she wanted me to move with him so I did. After we moved, the military forced my husband to take anger management classes and offered supportive counseling for me. My husband had a harder time keeping me isolated because I am an outgoing person and loved meeting and becoming friends with the other wives. I planned a path of escape from him by going back to school to get my teaching certificate so I could work and have the same schedule as my baby as she grew older. I also told him he needed to move out of our apartment because we weren't getting along and he moved in with one of the guys he worked with in the barracks. We had a 6 month lease on the apartment and when that was up, the military was ready to move us into military housing but I would not move there by myself with our little girl so he moved back and then we moved to military housing. The next instance of abuse happened when my husband came home drunk after a night with a friend. He fell right to sleep and I found a girl's name and number in his back pocket. I woke him up and demanded to know what happened and he punched me and gave me a bloody nose. I called the police and they made him leave and the military forbade him from coming to see me for 2 weeks. I really think this is what made him think twice about abusing me again, despite verbal threats. I did get my teaching certificate but as soon as I got my first job teaching, my husband became romantic and charming and enticed me to stay with him. I ended up getting pregnant with our second child and after a couple years, we moved back to our hometown city. We have lived in our hometown city for 24 years now and there have been a few instances when I felt threatened by my husband and immediately called the police who came over, gave me resources to call, and put my husband in his place. He is a rule follower type so it embarrassed him enough that he has altogether stopped. I sometimes think I must be really stupid to have stayed with him all these years but since the abuse has stopped and we had 2 more kids, there is really no reason to leave. Especially since I have circles of very close friends who I can go out with and travel with. He has never been financially abusive and has always been a good provider so that helps. And he has never tried to prevent me from going out with my friends or traveling with them. I have always believed that boys in our country, maybe even our world, are very much influenced by what they are exposed to on screens. My husband was always into very violent movies and TV shows and there are so many instances of abuse against women on the screen, even in video games, even in Lion King. So although it is not an excuse, I am cognizant that he has been very influenced by them.

I met my ex at a time in my life when I was incredibly vulnerable. I was processing a lot emotionally and I had uprooted my life and moved home. I wasn't making much money, living with my parents and really trying to figure out my next steps but faltering. Reeling from a significant romantic rejection, I was dating in a desperate way. I just wanted to find my person, have companionship, enjoy all the benefits of having a partner. And so when I met my ex, I projected all my desires for stability on to our relationship extremely quickly. We were talking about getting engaged (in a year) after only knowing each other one month. We moved in together after six months of dating. In a normal healthy relationship this wouldn't necessarily be an issue. But I had ignored a lot of red flags up to that point. He baselessly accused me of cheating on him, once when I was sexually assaulted in a bar he asked me what I did to make the person touch me, he made derogatory comments about what I wore, he ingratiated himself with my family. I had told him on our first date that I didn't want children, something that I do out of respect for people's desires and time. Months into our relationship he brought up (while drunk and angrily) that he wanted children but was giving that up to be with me. Shortly after we moved in together I had a slew of weddings for family and friends, all of which he attended. At the first I was the maid of honor. He got overly drunk at the rehearsal dinner and picked a fight with me after. He stormed out of a room full of people because I had walked away from him (to avoid standing near the door and blocking traffic) and it set him off. He yelled at me for thirty minutes about how inconsiderate I am and all the other reasons we weren't compatible. The next weekend was my sister's wedding. I couldn't go with him to pick up a suit before the rehearsal dinner and this set him off again. He drank too much and berated me later. This time for not having been as physically affectionate in the week between the weddings. I told him it was because I was scared of him, which he then yelled at me about further. I cuddled with him to fall asleep so he would calm down, it felt like diffusing a bomb. The final wedding was the worst. Same formula. Something small set him off, he drank too much and then broke up with me and tried to leave the wedding but couldn't get an Uber. When I tried to hold him accountable the next day he said we were both drunk so it wasn't anyone's fault. For the months that followed I dealt with endless scrutiny. I went into an office for work and he worked remotely. He would smell my clothes when I came home, ask why I was wearing lipgloss, or backhandedly tell me I looked nice. He was heavy handed about money. Times when I would ask him not to pay for something or say that I had it covered he would intervene behind my back. He spent hundreds of dollars on a birthday gift for my dad that my whole family had wanted to purchase even after I asked him not to. Money was a source of control and self-worth for him and even when I could contribute it wasn't enough or if I said I planned to buy something (our meals for my parents anniversary dinner) he would find a way to try and undermine me and pay for it himself. I was both somehow financially insufficient and then in the rare times I could pay for something for us, too financially independent for his liking. We got a dog only a few months into living together. He had put his dog down the previous year and was itching for another one. She is a sweetheart and I enjoyed raising her for the few months I did. The first time we trimmed her nails we accidentally cut one too short and she started bleeding so she was understandably hesitant of nail trimmings going forward. One night we decided to get her nails trimmed. I held her and my ex was trimming her nails and cut one too short. She started wriggling as he attempted to trim the rest but couldn't because she was so impatient. He became irate and threw the nail trimmer across the room. He stood up and while I was still holding her on the ground, wound up and hit her. I was completely frozen. I used to think that I should've moved in his way so that he hit me instead. I thought it would make him realize how bad his temper was but I know now I probably would've just sped up his timeline. A couple of weeks before we broke up we were having another bout of a recurring fight which centered around him finding it laborious and monotonous to be physically intimate with me. As I tried to express to him that it was hurtful for him to tell that it would start "getting old" to be intimate with me, he just became more angry. He had also drank a decent amount that night. He packed a bag and said he needed to stay at his parents' for the night. His exact words were "When I'm angry I do things I regret and I don't want to do something I'll regret". It took me a while to accept that from the throwing of things, the time I came home to a whole in the wall, the slamming of doors so hard that pictures came off the wall, and hitting the dog that when he said this he meant hitting me. Even for the first little bit after we broke up I maintained that he never would have hurt me and I was just a victim of emotional abuse. With more time and therapy I now know that I got out with very little time left to spare. My emotional and psychological safety were long gone and my physical safety was hanging by a thread. I'm now over a year out from our break-up. The first therapy session I had after our breakup I said to my therapist that I didn't want to put myself in a situation like that ever again. My therapist responded "you didn't put yourself in that situation, he did all of that to you and you survived it". I think because I wasn't showing up well at that point in my life it makes me feel like if I was stronger--emotionally, financially, personally--I wouldn't have been susceptible to this. I hold a lot of guilt and shame for being in such a vulnerable place in life that all of that happened to me. If I hadn't moved home, if I'd been making more money, if I hadn't moved in with him at six months, if I had left the million different times he showed a red flag maybe I wouldn't have the mental scars and trauma. And though that thought process is hard to shake I know at the end of the day, I didn't deserve any of the abuse I dealt with. What makes me the most angry about all of it is the innocence I lost. I never would have considered in my mid-late twenties I'd consider myself innocent. But the unburdened and carefree way I was able to think about dating before this is something I miss. There's a level of optimism I'll never get back. I used to think the worst thing that could happen to me while dating was someone being apathetic or incompatible, not intentionally violent. With a lot of therapy and time I am starting to regain my light and open heart. But the vivid memories will always be there, though hopefully they will fade. Although I'm indelibly changed, I won't let this rob me of my ability to see the good in people. I'm still deserving and capable of finding love, I have hope for that.

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."

when I was 13, I got my first boyfriend. he was my first kiss. I have since found that I am a lesbian and it was extremely hard to break out of the heteronormative cycle I was in. my mom loved my first boyfriend, we had been in the same grade school class since we were 5 years old and she said that one day we would get married. I knew he had a crush on me the entire time and eventually, I grew curious. he kept asking me to kiss him and I was hesitant, but it got to the point where I just did it to make him stop. I guess he grew comfortable enough around me that he felt he could get away with anything around me. he would smack my bum a lot, which I thought was just playful so I did it back to him. he wanted more from me and groped my chest without asking. I felt so dirty when he did it. it felt like I had to grow up right in that moment. I pulled his hand away but I didn't stop kissing him, I felt like that was what he wanted so I gave it to him. I got so in my head about it that I distanced myself from him and severed our relationship. I tried to tell my mom but she dismissed my being upset with him being 'handsy'. she was so proud of our relationship that I think I was only doing it to make her happy. I still don’t understand what happened, and I'm 21 now. if a full-grown man did that to me it would be mortifying to others. but we were both kids and I haven't stopped thinking about it for years. is that sexual assault? I feel like it's my fault that I led him on like that. and that this isn't as big of a deal as I'm making it out to be. why do I feel this way? we were 13 and I still feel violated and ignored, it's been 7 years. why is this so hard to get over? I'm graduating college soon with a degree in criminal justice, I want to be a victim's advocate. maybe some other 13-year-old girl can tell her mom and she will know where to go to understand what happened to her. I want to be the person to help but I still don’t understand what happened to me. why am I like this?

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.

I had become accustomed to being called horrible names (fat, bitch, cunt, stupid,whore, hairy,pathetic, ugly) being screamed at, shoved, pushed, hair pulled, my wrist grabbed so hard that I think I have nerve damage. But the day he punched me, choked me and I thought I was going to die is when I had enough. It was the lowest scariest moment in my life. Before it got to that extreme I felt I had to tolerate the abuse what I then labeled bad behaviors because that’s what loving someone else was. I accepted it as part of his short comings and believed I was so mentally strong they did not affect me. I also believed I could change him if I just showed him I loved him enough. That I could heal his wounds. It was a lie I told myself not realizing how toxic that was. When someone that claims to love you and who you love treats you with such disrespect, it wounds even the strongest of us. Eventually, that love became hate for him and for myself. I carried so much shame too because I couldn't believe that I allowed him to treat me with such cruelty. I believed myself stupid and weak. I was vulnerable because I craved affection. I was codependent and did not know it. I was easy prey for a narcissist. After I left him a part of me was relieved but another part was so hurt and lost. I had days I felt like just crying and staying in bed, days going to work was almost impossible because I hated myself for everything specifically where I found myself at 27. I soon realized that what I thought was weak was actually the good in me. The understanding, emphatic and caring parts of me were not weakness, I was just giving that to someone that did not deserve it. Did not deserve me. I had to learn to heal by showing myself the compassion and love I gave him. I had to learn to love myself and I did. I realized I am strong and resilient and deserve to be happy. I found my joy to live and an inner strength I had no idea I possessed. To anyone that feels trapped in a cycle of abuse I say you are not alone and you are NOT crazy. I remember the first time I allowed myself to speak about all the abuse. It was to a therapist and I only seeked out therapy because I no longer recognized myself. I was either sad or angry and began suffering from anxiety. She said to me, I can't imagine how it feels to live with all those feelings and I remember crying. For the first time, I felt like my feelings mattered and I was not insane because I had been gaslighted and manipulated to the point I didn’t trust my feelings. Most of that hour I was balling and could not stop. It was like the flood gates opened and there was no closing them. I just had to wait for it to empty out. The pain I was holding in was indescribable. I just know I do not wish it to anyone. It was also the start of my healing. The last few years on my own have forced me to grow and really love myself. I can say today that I look back at that time and feel like this all happened to someone else. There are moments, triggers that remind me of the sad girl I once was but I am so much stronger now that they do not last. It took years to get here, and there is still work I got to do like learn to be vulnerable again but one thing I know for sure, I will NEVER go back to that version of me.

As man who suffered abuse and watched as my mother and sister suffered it with me, here's my story. I have turned it into a book called Book Name that will be published in 2025, in the hopes my story will help others who have been silent to speak up and speak out. Growing up in 1960s City, my father’s explosive temper ruled our house like a storm that never stopped raging. His beatings were a ritual—unpredictable but inevitable. His belt was his weapon of choice, and I was the target. First came the verbal assault. “You’re worthless!” he’d scream, spitting his venomous words before unleashing the belt on me. The crack of leather against my skin was sharp, but what cut deeper was the fear that filled my every moment. His attacks were brutal and relentless, and I learned quickly that crying only made it worse. I developed a mantra to survive: “I’m not crazy; he is.” I scratched those words into the wall beneath my bed and held onto them like a lifeline, clinging to the idea that this madness wasn’t my fault. But no mantra could protect me from the pain or the scars that came with each beating. My body bruised and welted, and I carried those marks into adulthood, hidden beneath layers of clothing and false smiles. When I was six, a moment of curiosity nearly killed me. I had been playing outside, tossing sticks into a neighbor’s burning barrel, when a spark landed on my nylon jacket. Within seconds, I was engulfed in flames. As I screamed and ran, my back burning, a neighbor tackled me into the snow, saving my life. In the hospital, as doctors worked to heal my third-degree burns, my fear of my father overshadowed the pain. When I came home, still covered in bandages, my father’s violence continued. He slapped me across the face for not attending the party he had arranged for my homecoming. The message was clear: no amount of suffering would earn me compassion from him. His cruelty was unyielding, and I realized that nearly dying had changed nothing. As the physical scars from the fire healed, the emotional scars festered. I lived in constant fear, not knowing when the next beating would come. His footsteps sent shivers through me, each step a reminder that I was never safe. Even after his death in year his influence loomed over me. I was relieved he was gone, but unresolved grief and anger remained. I sought to reinvent myself in university, throwing myself into academics and work. I was determined to escape the trauma, but no matter how hard I ran, it followed me. The violence I experienced as a child soon became violence I inflicted on myself. In my twenties, bulimia became my way of coping. I would binge on food and purge, as if vomiting could expel the pain I had carried for so long. It was a twisted ritual of control, and yet I had no control at all. Afterward, I would collapse in a heap, my body drained but my mind still haunted by memories I couldn’t outrun. Each cycle promised relief, but it never lasted. Obsessive exercise became another outlet. I spent hours in the gym, pushing my body to its limits, believing that if I could perfect my exterior, I could somehow fix the brokenness inside. I built muscles to protect myself, but the mirror always reflected the truth—hollow eyes staring back at me, the emptiness never far behind. Even as I climbed the ranks in my career, becoming a corporate executive, the gnawing self-doubt persisted. I was successful, but success didn’t heal the wounds my father left. I also sought comfort in strangers. Fleeting encounters became a way to fill the void inside, offering temporary escape from the relentless pain. But after every encounter, the emptiness returned, more consuming than before. No amount of running, lifting, or sex could fill the gaping hole in my heart. I was numbing myself, not living. It wasn’t until I sought therapy that I began to confront the traumas I had buried so deeply. My first therapist suggested writing letters to my parents, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It took finding the right therapist—someone who pushed me to go beyond the surface—to finally begin the healing process. Slowly, I unraveled the layers of pain, facing not only the abuse from my father but also the self-inflicted harm I had continued to impose upon myself for years. My wife, name became my greatest support, helping me peel back the layers and confront the darkness I had hidden for so long. Together, we built a life of love and connection, but even in those happiest moments, the shadows of my past never left me. When my mother passed away indate, I found closure in our complicated relationship. Forgiveness—both for her and for myself—became an essential part of my healing. Today, I use my story to encourage others to speak up and break the silence around abuse. The pain I endured was not in vain. I believe that our past can fuel our purpose and that, ultimately, our pain can become our power.

The latch clicked quietly as the husband slunk out the front door after pulling it closed behind him. Soon he'd be in the bed of another woman across town. Only anticipating the rapturous evening awaiting him a few sultry miles away, he never once pondered who the wife he was leaving behind the closed door would be having in her bed. Nor did his selfish burning need coax him in the direction of caring. With one hand she snuffed out the glow of the Benson & Hedges in the ashtray and let it fall amongst the remnants of expired fags. With her other hand she pulled me onto her young, firm, milky white body. Like a baker kneading dough she pushed my face into a voluptuous breast whose excited nipple immediately disappeared between my trembling lips. As this was my first time, with many more sinful nights to come, I relied on her every command to guide me as she moaned "Now lick it" while exhaling an intoxicated breath. Swirling my tongue around my new found endeavor was not what I had ever imagined I'd be doing, especially with such a young beautiful wife...of another man. Like a football goalie terminating an attempted goal she cupped my head with a steely grip, and her slender fingers became entangled in my now sweaty hair as my aroused vixen slid my face down past her belly button onto a patch of hair that was as soft as cotton candy, It was a dark place under the covers, but enough light bled through the cotton veil enabling me to see my way to where she murmured more directions. "Put your tongue in it" Still not knowing what I was doing I followed her every command. As I licked where she said, I flinched as her nails dug into my scalp, and like an old hand at it I instinctively darted my tongue between the folds while massaging and prodding with my exploring fingers. I could tell she approved with each trembling moan. Soon there would more undercover escapades, but it seemed she had tired of just me, and I wasn't enough for her vile hunger. Now laying beside me was my younger brother. We did everything together, and here we were at it again. He was two years my junior, and so much more inexperienced than me, so he did like his older bro, following my lead just like I had followed hers. With each click of the front door as he left to engorge in his own delights, our threesome nights grew longer, consequently making my days harder to struggle through. Often, I'd fall asleep on my desk, twitching and knocking my box of Crayons onto the school floor. My first-grade teacher would wipe the drool from my mouth and

Free. That word has such a different meaning after feeling trapped and caged in an abusive marriage. I am free. I am free from the fear of what the next day may bring. I am free from the hateful words that cut so deep into my soul. I am free from his hands that bruised me. I am free from the emotional torture. I am free of being blamed for his misfortune and failures. I am free to love myself. I fought to get back my freedom and I will never sacrifice MY freedom for a man again.

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

Trigger warning. I was sexually abused at the age of 5. My mom’s boyfriend’s uncle took me on a tractor ride with my brother. My mom’s boyfriend’s uncle pulled down my pants and touched me. He dropped me off by the side of the road and took my brother with him. I ran after the tracker, calling my brother’s name. After he picked us both up, he dropped us off back at the house. I told my grandma what happened, and she wanted to call the cops. My mom said she would take care of it. She didn't do anything. The next time I was abused, I was 6. My mom was with someone else. He was my stepdad. He was drunk and got in bed with me naked. I don't remember what happened now, but my mom told me that I told her he raped me, and she said that I was bleeding. When I was 7, my step-sister wouldn't play Barbies with me unless I kissed and massaged her. She was 9. I should have just said no. I don't know what's wrong with me. When I was 14, my mom was dating someone else, and he would always touch me. I told him to stop, but he wouldn't listen. He said I was hot; he touched me everywhere, every day for four years. He chased me around the house, trying to get me to sit on his lap. He stood in my room watching me. I was afraid to go to sleep. I was also scared to change into PJs. I didn't want him coming in on me. I stayed up until midnight because that's what time he got up. When I fell asleep, I dreamed of him raping me. When I woke up, my pants were unbuttoned, and the zipper was down. I don't know if he did anything or not in my sleep. I told my mother what happened, but I don't think she wanted to believe it even though she saw him chase me around the house. At age 19, my boyfriend at the time raped me. I didn't want to do anything with him with his son in the room. He didn't take no for an answer, and he tossed me around like a rag doll. He took my phone and wouldn't let me call anyone. He called his two guy friends to take me home. I shouldn't have gone with them, but they didn't touch me. The guy I was dating gave me my phone back when I got in the car, and I called my grandma. After I went to the cops, they didn't do anything. At the age of 22, I was sexually abused again. I don't feel comfortable saying who. He did apologize, though. Watching Law & Order SVU gave me a sense of justice, watching the rapists go to jail. Mariska Hargitay is my hero.