I slept in fear. The Browns, a kind and loving family who had taken me in after I escaped, treated me like one of their own daughters—but even in their safe home, I couldn’t shake the terror. Every night, I left the light on in the bedroom upstairs, bracing for the day my ex-husband might break in and drag me into the street, just as he had at my mother’s house on that horrific night I’ll never forget.
I was only sixteen when I got married. I came from a broken home. My mother often told me she didn’t love me, that she hated me, that she wished I had never been born. The divorce between my parents reached a point where she kicked me out, and my father signed the papers for me to marry C.
At first, he was charming. He knew how to manipulate me from the start, but behind that charm was a darkness I couldn’t have imagined. If I was cooking dinner, he would take boiling water from the pot, pour it on a spoon, and flick it at me. Sometimes he grabbed my arm and sprayed aerosol cans on my skin, watching it burn. I never told anyone. I lived in complete shame.
“If you ever leave me, I will kill you before I ever let you be with anyone else,” C warned, keeping me trapped in our marriage through fear alone.
I will never forget one night, the fear etched into my memory. C popped more pills and looked at me with eyes that held pure evil. “Remember the way I was last night? Tonight is going to be worse,” he said. I stared back at a man who had made our bedroom a prison. How could I survive? I never knew when it might be my last breath, his hands closing around my throat again. Yet, a spark of defiance flared inside me. Every chance I had, I leapt for anything that could serve as a weapon. He ripped the phone from the wall I grabbed, laughing. “What are you going to do, call the police?”
Those twenty-four hours were a nightmare. Mind games and terror filled the air. The blunt end of a sharp knife struck my temple repeatedly, stopping just before impact. My head throbbed against the bed as he coldly described how he would dispose of my body in a dumpster, assuring me that nobody cared, nobody loved me. The torture continued through the night, unrelenting.
I knew I had to escape. I grabbed an empty bottle after many failed attempts and struck C over the head, hitting him again as he covered himself. Naked, I ran from the bedroom, snatching my work smock from the back of a chair, throwing it on as I fled through the front door. I ran across the apartment complex, desperate for help.
The only person who would help me was a young mother who let me stay in her apartment. I called the police. Her neighbor, a police officer, went to check if C was home. He wasn’t, but she saw him searching for me, bleeding, and my fear spiked. Hours passed before the police arrived. Back then, domestic violence was taken lightly. It was his word against mine, even though my neck bore strangulation bruises. I called my mother to gather what I could and vowed never to return.
Later that night, he came to my mother’s house. He kicked in the back door and tried to drag me into the street, attempting to force me into his friend’s car. My mom and baby sister tried to intervene. One lone angel, Mr. Bob, stopped him, warning the driver that C was trying to pull me in. The police came, and though I was told to file a restraining order, he was only arrested for breaking in. No further charges were brought.
I realized the only way to survive was to leave town. A friend’s mom found a place for me to stay. That night, I slept at a stranger’s house, and in the morning, I traveled incognito by public transportation to live with a family I had met only once as a child at a retreat. My mother refused to drive me, so I called my father, begging for help. He yelled, “You can’t stay here!” A women’s shelter put me on a waiting list, prioritizing women with children, leaving me with no choice but to rely on strangers for safety.
I called my employer and said, “My husband tried to kill me. I have to quit,” and hung up. I tried to live normally, though shame suffocated me. I buried my past deep inside, never speaking of it. When I was seventeen, I often heard whispers: “She got married at sixteen, something must be wrong with her.” The trauma lingered, leaving me anxious, panic-stricken, and convinced I was unlovable. His hands around my throat haunted me for years, leaving a permanent fear of being unable to breathe.
I am now fifty-five, and I have finally released that shame by sharing my story. I speak openly in the women’s Facebook group I created, “Women Warriors Empowered, Love and Unity,” offering strength and solidarity to others.
I have come to understand that I was saved for a purpose greater than my pain. I have found my voice. I carry love and forgiveness in my heart, choosing no longer to be a victim. I am free—free to simply be me.
