So many times, I’ve struggled to tell this story from start to finish.
Even now, I’m telling it in broken pieces.
Why is that?

Some memories hit me like a freight train — vivid and raw. Others? I try to force myself to forget.
But the truth is, I can’t forget.
It’s not just burned — it’s carved into my memory.

These memories are raw pain, unprocessed trauma from a time when I was barely existing.

Honestly, I didn’t even want to exist.

My days were a nightmare routine:

Wake up from restless sleep — usually only a few hours after being forced into bed from arguments, accusations, or those sexual obligations that were supposed to be “satisfied.”
Get ready for work. Go to work.
Talk to him on the phone until I lost service — and those 15 precious, silent minutes were the only minutes that were mine.
All mine.

Then the moment I got service back, I had to call him immediately.
Any gap in communication had to be explained.

At work, I had to message him throughout the day, sticking to his idea of the “right” timing between texts.
I took a 15-minute break. A 30-minute lunch — though I always chose the shorter one because that meant less time sitting alone in my car, stuck on the phone.

Back at work, I’d message him again, reporting who I worked with, sending photos of the people around me, defending myself if he didn’t approve.

One time, I went to lunch with a girlfriend. Because the front-facing camera flipped the photo, he became convinced there was someone else in the car. He accused me of lying.
When he finally realized the truth, instead of owning up to his mistake, he accused me of having an affair with my female colleague.

These memories race through my head every day.
I still can’t sleep most nights—the nightmares are vivid. Sharp. Relentless. A constant reminder of what I survived.

I wish I could say it gets easier each time I remember.
But it doesn’t.
The truth? It still guts me. Every. Single. Time. They just rip open an old wound.
No matter how many times I process it with my therapist,
No matter how many times I tell myself I am more than the abuse...

I still hear and see it all like it was yesterday.

So rather than let it sit there, silent and heavy,
I decided to do the one thing he never wanted me to do:

I am no longer going to allow myself to be a victim.
And the advice I give to anyone else who is safe and out of that hell:
Tell the damn story.

Let your side be heard in a safe place.
Find your people.
Don’t give the abuser their power anymore—because the more we suffer in silence and wither away as victims, the more power we give them.

But the more we tell our story,
the more we empower each other,
the more we take back that power
and find our voices again.

So now I’m telling my story.

Maybe someone will find solace or comfort in knowing they are not alone.
Maybe someone will find the courage to speak up, too.
Maybe we’ll find support in each other.
Or maybe this doesn’t resonate with you at all and you’re just here for the dark humor and brutal honesty.
Because let’s face it—trauma gives us sharp teeth and a twisted sense of humor.

If we don’t laugh, we cry.
And we’ve done enough crying.

Believe me—you are not alone.

While I’m a woman who faced the abuse of a narcissistic man,
abuse comes in all shapes and sizes.
And what keeps us quiet is often the hardest part to overcome.

Why I’m Breaking Free

Because silence was never safety — it was survival.
And I’m done surviving.
I want to live.

Because for too long, I twisted myself into knots just to be “enough” for someone who was never worthy of me in the first place.

Because I spent years apologizing for breathing too loud, laughing too long,
existing too much — and I refuse to keep shrinking to fit into someone else’s broken mold.

Because every time I tell this story, I take back another piece of myself he tried to erase.

Because he hated when I spoke up.
So now? I speak louder.

Because I’m not just writing this for me — I’m writing this for you.

The one still stuck.
The one still healing.
The one who thinks no one would believe them.

I see you.
I was you.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned — it’s this:
The only thing louder than their abuse is our truth.
And I’m not whispering anymore.

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It all happened fast — one big life event after another.

• August 17, 2012 — I had my first daughter.

• December 5, 2012 — I enrolled in school for my BS in Healthcare Administration.

• February 13, 2013 — I got married.

I was working at a convenience store/gas station, juggling newborn life, school applications, and what I thought was a dream kind of love. But even then, the cracks had started to show.

The wedding wasn’t what I imagined. It was rushed, quiet, and full of compromises. He said it had to happen right after he moved in — his six-year-old son couldn’t visit unless we were married because of court stuff with his ex. No time to plan, no invitations, no real celebration. In his story, she was the villain — a manipulative monster — and I believed every word.

We got married in my dad’s living room. I wore an off-white, knee-length dress with a thick lace pattern — something I found on clearance at Kohl’s. Simple, sweet. Not the dress I dreamed of walking down the aisle in, but it was what I could manage. My friend was the only witness. My brother wasn’t there. My sisters were nowhere to be seen. My dad was working.

The engagement ring? Later I found out it was cheap — which explained why my skin broke out. I have a metal allergy. But none of that mattered. I didn’t care because I thought I had found my human. My safe place.

I had all the people I needed. Or so I thought.

What happened next wasn’t what I expected. The pregnancy was planned. When I got pregnant again — while working and going to school — he stayed home to take care of the baby, saying it was for health reasons. He barely worked while we were married, except when I was on bed rest. That was his excuse for almost everything.

Everyone said how lucky I was to have someone willing to help with the baby while I worked and went to school. But what they didn’t hear were the fights behind closed doors. He felt like a glorified babysitter. He said he believed I only married him so he could watch the baby. That hurt more than I can say.

Then the walls started closing in.

Certain people couldn’t come over anymore. My sister? No longer allowed to just drop by. My childhood friend? No longer allowed to be my friend at all. Why? Because he was a he, and I was a she. According to my ex, that was “not okay.” What if something accidentally happened? He said the way my friend looked at me was inappropriate. Somehow, that was enough to make the people I trusted disappear.

So I started telling them they couldn’t just come over anymore. They had to call. They had to ask. That felt so weird. I grew up in a house where we barely locked the door — a place where everyone ended up. The door was always open. People were always welcome.

But with him?
I had all the people I needed. Or so I thought.

The only time he worked was when I was on bed rest with my middle child. During that last month or so, I was told I couldn’t work and had to take it easy — or they would admit me to the hospital.

That’s when he started working.

But there were so many arguments throughout the pregnancy — especially when I was sick or too tired to meet his sexual needs. According to him, that was my job.

I started walking on eggshells in my own house. Not sure how I got there, but somehow I was always apologizing. For being tired. For not wanting to be touched. For asking for help. For speaking too loudly. For existing too much.

And yet, there was one time I pushed back.

Just weeks after we got married, I got a message that stopped me cold. One of my closest friends — someone I’d once had feelings for (not that it ever worked out, but that’s another story) — had been shot. His brother messaged me to say they didn’t know if he was going to make it.

I panicked. My chest tightened. I couldn’t think straight. When I told my husband, hoping for comfort, he said,
“Well, he’s the dumbass who got himself shot. And why do you even care? You’re married now.”

I’ll never forget that moment. I’ll never forget how wrong it felt.

That was the only time I really fought him in those early days. I looked him in the face and said,
“That’s not okay. You don’t say that. That’s a life. And all life matters.”

He didn’t get it. Maybe he didn’t want to. But I meant it. I still do.

That moment stuck with me. Because even then — so early on — I felt myself fading, shrinking, quieting. I thought,
If I don’t hold on to the parts of me that care, that love, that fight... I’ll lose them.

The joke was on me — I lost almost every part of me in that storm.

It took everything I had and then some to get it back, and it came at the cost of one of the most important relationships — the friend who had been shot.

Years later, he saved me. Did more for me than I could ever repay, reminding me who I was and urging me to never lose that again. For that, I will always be grateful. Because living as a shell of yourself? That’s not living. That’s just existing.

Everything looked calm on the outside. I wasn’t ready to face the truth — not yet. But looking back, the storm wasn’t on the horizon anymore. It was already here, howling all around me. I just couldn’t hear it over the noise of trying to hold it together.

There’s so much more to come — so stay tuned, folks. It’s about to get spicy.

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The charm. The warmth. The way they study you like they’re in love — when really, they’re just learning your weaknesses. They find out where your flaws hide, where your insecurities bleed through the most. They learn how you tick from the inside out — and then use it to drain every ounce of energy from your soul.

At first, it feels like a dream. They say all the right things. They make you feel seen, chosen, safe. But it’s not love — it’s bait. And just when it feels too good to be true, they flash a glimpse of vulnerability to reel you in even deeper — hook, line, and sink.
By the time you realize you’ve been caught, you’re already tangled in shame, confusion, and the kind of loneliness that only comes from sleeping next to someone who’s slowly erasing you.

I didn’t fall in love with a monster — at least, I didn’t think he was a monster. I was blinded by the allure of him, with his southern charm. A demeanor that people today might call “quiet” or “humble.”
And I know exactly what I had: trauma and defiance.

My dad didn’t whisper warnings — he said it to my face. Repeatedly.
He even told him to his face: “There’s something off about you.”
It wasn’t subtle. It was intense. And still, I didn’t want to hear it.
After all, a narcissist can always spot another narcissist — and that’s exactly what was happening. I needed to know this man, even though I was seeing someone else.
He was perfect — and I was already broken.
Which meant he had no trouble getting into my head, especially since I’d been raised by a narcissist.

Growing up in a broken home, with my father telling me how much my mother didn’t love me or my siblings — being told that the person who meant the most to me didn’t care, and feeling hollow and insignificant. Constantly hearing how much of a failure I’d be. (Joke’s on them — I think I turned out pretty damn decent, especially after dragging myself out of that hailstorm.)

Then I found out I was pregnant with my boyfriend’s child. I stopped talking to him for a while, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get him out of my head.
I fell for the version of him he wanted me to see. It wasn’t until I was in the hospital, about to give birth to my oldest daughter, that I finally worked up the nerve to call him again. And that call marked the beginning of the end. Everything that happened after feels like a fever dream. I had an excuse for every moment, every hurt — but the truth is, there was no excuse for the abuse.

There was only survival — for me and my children.

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