Trauma entry

 Warning domestic violence of women and children

(Shared for healing and legal documentation)

I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on the things I’ve survived. Writing it down helps me process, and it’s also important for me to document my truth.

I remember nights filled with yelling and fear — times when arguments weren’t mine but I still became the target. I remember being hit for trying to walk away and being told, “don’t ever rush me or I’ll hit you again.” I remember sitting on the floor crying, wondering what I could do differently to stop the violence.

I remember trying to keep peace in a house full of chaos — cleaning for hours, trying to help with children, trying to make things okay. No matter how much I did, it was never enough. I remember being told a room was mine, then watching that space slowly taken over until I had nowhere safe to go.

I remember being injured and still not allowed to rest. I remember the mold in the sink, the exhaustion, the hopelessness. I remember being shoved, dragged, screamed at, and blocked from leaving. I remember hearing the words, “if you’re done with me, I have the right to kill you,” and running for my life.

I remember the night the police came, finding a head injury, cuts, and bruises. That was March 7, 2024. He spent one night in jail. I wish I could say I stayed away, but I was too broken and too manipulated to understand that what was happening wasn’t love — it was control. The next day, I was at the courthouse trying to undo the charges because I believed his lies.

I wish I had stayed gone.

There were other victims too. Other women and children caught in that same storm. I remember their screams, their fear, their pain. I carry those memories with me every day.

Even now, little things can trigger the memories — trees, lights, shadows. My son wanted me to look up at the tree lights during visitation recently, and I had to hold back tears. That moment reminded me how trauma lives in the body long after the danger is gone.

I live with complex PTSD, not only from my childhood but from this marriage. There are photos, hospital records, police reports — proof of what I endured — but sometimes the emotional scars are harder to explain than the visible ones.

He manipulated me, violated my boundaries, and twisted my words. What he did was not love — it was abuse. I am not writing this out of hate or revenge. I am writing this as a record, as a survivor, as a mother who wants peace and safety for herself and her children.

All I want now is freedom — a divorce, protection for me and my boys, and a future without fear. I share my story because silence only protects the abuser. Speaking out protects others.

I am a survivor.

And while some nights I still feel broken inside, I am learning every day that surviving means I am still here — still healing, still growing, still reclaiming my voice.