By Survivor LeeLee
I Was 18 and in Love. I Didn’t Know I Was Walking Into Hell
**The following is written by a survivor of domestic violence and abuse. Descriptions and details may be too graphic for some. Names have been changed to protect all involved.**
I was 18 when I met the father of my children. He told me he was 22. He kept asking how old I was, like he kept forgetting. But eventually, he admitted he was 24. I was madly in love. Eighteen, young, and naive. I didn’t know anything yet.
Especially not how cruel someone could be behind a charming face.
Six or seven months into our relationship, I got pregnant. We moved in together as soon as we found out. That first year of pregnancy was… okay.
But I started noticing how he spent what little money we had on drugs. We were living paycheck to paycheck. It was rent, groceries, and scraping by. That led to arguments. Nothing ever changed.
It didn’t get abusive until after we had our first son.
The Lies and Cheating and Abuse
He started cheating. And when I tried to talk to him about how that hurt me, he’d weaponize my insecurities. He’d say things like, “That’s why she has this, and you don’t,” comparing me to other women — on purpose. To hurt me. It was only the beginning of my hell.
One night, after something particularly disrespectful, we got into an argument. He pushed me. I slapped him. He slapped me harder. It escalated. Somehow we always “resolved” it.
But every time he cheated, it caused another fight. And another time, he slapped me around — and this time, he strangled me.
“That began to happen about once a month.”
I got pregnant again.
Three months in, another fight. We were visiting his family, an hour and a half away. He slapped me, dumped water on me. His sister heard and started yelling at him. He tried to take our son and leave, but his family intervened.
His dad held our baby, his mom clutched the car keys. He pushed his dad, twisted his mom’s wrist to take the keys, and his sisters tried to stop him.
That’s when he lost it.
He stomped on one of his sister’s heads, dragged the other down the stairs by her hair. I was locked upstairs with our son, hiding. Then I looked out the window, trying to figure out if I could jump. I truly thought I was going to die that night.
The Blame Set In
I blamed myself.
I called the police — because his dad told me to. But when the cops came, his dad downplayed everything. “Just a family argument,” he said. “No danger.”
And then they turned to me and asked, “Why did you call the police?” I was stunned. I had done what they told me to. I was scared.
Three days later, he came back. His family forgave him. And I stayed. I was scared. Trapped. Trauma-bonded.
We got kicked out of our apartment. And the abuse didn’t stop. It got worse.
“I was 8 months pregnant, with intense sciatic pain.”
I locked myself in the bathroom to get away from him. He unscrewed the hinges off the door with a screwdriver, dragged me out naked and wet, hung me upside down and said, “You wanna leave? I’m going to throw you out like this.”
He pulled me up the stairs like that. Cold. Naked. Humiliated. That was the moment I fully realized how broken this was.
I gave birth. And I asked the universe for a sign to leave.
A month postpartum, I found another woman on his phone. I confronted him while he was out running errands. He came home.
I saw the rage in his face before he even opened the door. He chased me around the kitchen table, dragged me down the basement stairs by my hair while I clung to the railing. My neck stretched. I let go.
“I thought, this is it. I’m going to die.”
He slapped me every time I said I wanted to go home, home to my mom. I kept saying it anyway. He pushed me into a statue, and it fell on our son, gave him a black eye. I sat there in silence, terrified. I asked for permission to go upstairs for water.
Kissed my boys. Walked slowly. Then I ran.
A neighbor saw me. I didn’t run into her arms — I thought he might grab me right from them. So I kept running. But he had jumped the fence and was waiting at the other end of the cul-de-sac. My heart dropped. I screamed bloody murder.
He ran home, realizing I would draw attention.
Escaping My Hell
Another woman asked if I was okay. I told her I had nothing. No phone. Could I come in and call my family? She hesitated, as it was during the pandemic, until I saw his car circling. I dove into her bushes, begging, please, please, he’s right there. She let me in.
She wasn’t even the homeowner, I think she was the maid. The owner was working from home. They let me eat. Let me call my mom. Let me feel safe.
My family came. My mom was furious, not at him, but at me. What fresh hell was this?
She was hurt I hadn’t told her what had been going on for two years. I told her I was ashamed. I didn’t want to face the humiliation. All in all, I was 18, pregnant, living with someone I barely knew, with no plan, no direction.
“We called the police. They arrested him.”
He was charged with strangulation, assault and battery, obstruction, and prevention of calling 911. I should’ve gone to court. I didn’t. We were trauma bonded. I secretly started meeting up with him again. I humiliated myself. And I lost my family’s trust. And I allowed the cycle to continue… until he cheated again.
By then, I wasn’t even angry. I was numb.
On our anniversary, he got a text and wouldn’t let me see it. We didn’t even make it to dinner. I got out of the car, ordered an Uber, and went home. That was the end of my hell.
I Am Out of That Hell Now
Now I’m 26.
It’s been five years since we separated. I’m still living at my mom’s house, but I’m safe, and I’m happy.
I went through therapy.
Because when you live in abuse that long, you start to become like them. I was angry, defensive, cold. I felt disconnected from everyone. And I wasn’t giving my kids the love and attention they deserved. I struggled with substance abuse.
But I fought to get better.
I take my kids on vacations every year. I’m present. I’m stronger. And I’m in a healthy relationship now — one with support, communication, and peace. I’ve learned to speak up. To protect my peace. And to take shit from nobody.
I share this story now not for pity — but for clarity.
Check These Resources:
- Therapeutic Interventions for Healing From Domestic Violence
- The Hidden Impact of Teen Dating Violence
- Find Support with BTSADV
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