11/11/2025
Anonymous Post
I survived.
I survived a panic attack when he tried to drive us off a bridge because he was stressed and overwhelmed. I didn’t know then that this was only the beginning of a very long chain of events.
I survived the smaller moments too — the ones that didn’t look dramatic from the outside but broke me down from the inside. The arguments where he lost control, spat in my face, grabbed my phone and smashed it. The sound of plates shattering around me while I sat on the couch, holding my baby close, trying to shield him from the chaos erupting around us.
I remember standing against the wall with my baby in my arms while he screamed over me, his face inches from mine, and then punched a hole in the drywall right next to my head. I looked at the keys, planned the escape, and somehow got us out safely.
When he lost control, it was like he became someone else entirely. His eyes changed — bulging, wild — foam gathering at the corners of his mouth as spit flew while he screamed. The sounds didn’t even feel human.
I survived the night I locked myself and my child in the bathroom, calling for help, terrified he would hurt us. He called me a “whore” and a “bitch,” over and over again. It confused me deeply because I was none of the things he accused me of — but he needed me confused. Confusion is control. So I kept trying to prove my loyalty and love. I believed he was just “hurting,” and I had committed to him.
There was a time he left the house with all the keys. It had only been a few weeks since we were robbed. I was alone with a one-year-old in a house I couldn’t lock. I remember putting pots in front of the door so that if someone tried to come in, the noise would wake me. I barely slept.
I survived another episode where he almost crushed me between the wall and the car. He then tried to drive into oncoming traffic with my son in the car. I pulled the handbrake and we almost lost control. When I tried to speak, he shoved his hand over my face so hard that my glasses cut my nose and my tooth cut my lip.
I left again and stayed with a member of our church. I was asked what my role in all of this was, so I went back again — because maybe if I reacted differently, he wouldn’t hurt me. He tormented our baby to get a reaction from me, then recorded me when I responded emotionally, and used those recordings to “prove” to others that I was abusive.
He changed at one point and became the perfect husband. But then he snapped again. He said he was tired of putting in all the effort and that I wasn’t doing enough. He threw something at me — and it hit our newborn baby. When I called for help, he escalated further.
There was another outburst while driving. I called someone, and while they were listening, he behaved perfectly. When we got home, he left, then came back with Coke for the kids and told them that mommy was evil, that I would kill myself by slitting my wrists or hanging myself — and that it would be sad, but it would be okay because he would take care of them. I stood there frozen. It was a new kind of horror.
He told me to my face, “I know you are going to kill yourself.” I told him he needed help. He did go to therapy — and came back saying that his therapist told him I was the narcissist.
I began therapy too.
I made him pancakes one evening; I didn’t add enough salt. He chewed, spat the food out, shoved the plate into me and shouted with anger because I “didn’t listen.”
Later, he began hurting the children. He poured water over their heads until they screamed as if they were drowning. He locked them in dark cupboards knowing they were terrified of the dark. I would get upset, and he would record my reaction and send it to church members. I protected his name and refused to tell my family, kept silent to avoid turning people against him — and in doing so, I isolated myself completely. Meanwhile, he was destroying mine.
Our shared coach warned me, “This isn’t just narcissism. There is something more.”
One day, he grabbed our son by the arm and je**ed him so hard he cried. As our son walked up the stairs, he pushed him forward. I ran to protect him. He twisted my arm behind my back. I stayed calm so my child wouldn’t be even more scared. I got my son into his room and closed the door. Then he came at, remembering some self defense techniques i was taught by a family member, I picked my arms up, hands faced towards him telling him to back off, he hit my arms down repeatedly. Then he grabbed me by the throat and covered my mouth and nose with his hands.
I managed to de-escalate. He stormed downstairs and threatened to kill the dogs.
That was the moment I called my coach, who told me to go to the police. I was overwhelmed — we had been planning to leave the country soon and I panicked at the thought of custody issues, travel restrictions, everything. He left the house with the only car, my wallet, the children’s car seats, and all the food — for a month. The church had to step in to help.
We attempted reconciliation again. He demanded I remove the protection order to prove my trust. Then he demanded I get rid of my dogs. The control began again.
Then he tried to break my arm in front of the children.
I filed a second protection order.
The events that unfolded after separation were shocking in a different way — the psychological, emotional, and manipulative abuse continued, and in some ways still does today. But the physical violence ended the moment I left.
And through all of this…
I did not fall.
I overcame.
I stood back up.
I protected myself my children.
I provided.
I rebuilt.
I do not need pity.
Becaus what I lived through required strength most will never understand.
I survived.
And I am still rising.
