I was 19 the first time I “left” my abuser. I was 7 months pregnant with our first child and he had locked me in our bedroom, as in he was in the hall holding the doorknob, and was telling me that he was going to set our apartment on fire. I crawled out of a bedroom window and crawled onto the garage that our downstairs neighbor had. And I jumped the 15 feet to the ground with a backpack before calling my mom to come get me. He had my car keys, check book, and my ID. He had thrown a trash can at me because I burnt microwave popcorn. It took me 9 years and 2 more kids to leave. With a 100 more instances like that. I was kicked out in the middle of the night because the kids and I ate before he was off work at 10 pm. He put his hand threw a window one night because I fell asleep in our sons bed. I don’t even remember what I did the night he walked around with a rifle and threatened to kill all of us. We went threw TV remotes like candy because someone would talk during something he was watching, or playstation remotes because his game wouldn’t save or the game didn’t go how he wanted. The last straw was him repeatedly stomping on my hand and breaking multiple bones because I wouldn’t let him leave with our kids in the middle of the night. I packed his things in trash bags a few weeks later and told him to not come back. At that point, I had had multiple concussions, broken ribs, broken hand, and a fractured cheekbone. I weighed 90 pounds and he was still calling me fat. It’s been 13 years at this point and I still suffer from C-PTSD and night terrors.
Surviving the Unthinkable: Why Thier Stories Matter
*By Survivor Jamie A Night That Escalated Without Warning The evening began like any other.There was time spent together.A social setting.A sense of normal routine. But like many abusive situations, nothing stayed calm for long. What followed was a sudden and violent escalation that turned a private space into a...
