He abused me daily over the smallest mistakes—burnt toast, a slow reply, even a glance. “You made me do this,” he’d hiss. One night, terror overwhelmed me and I collapsed. At the hospital, he lied to the staff: “She slipped in the shower.”

I endured years of daily abuse over the smallest things—burnt toast, a slow reply, even a look. “You made me do this,” he’d hiss, making me believe I was to blame. Fear became my constant companion. I hid bruises, rehearsed smiles, and learned to make myself smaller to survive.

One night, after a panic attack, I collapsed. At the hospital, he lied, claiming I’d slipped in the shower. But the doctor saw the truth: my injuries weren’t consistent with a fall. For the first time, someone else believed me.

I spoke up. Jason was arrested. The process was grueling—court, police statements, reliving trauma—but it was the start of my freedom. Healing was slow, but today I live without constant fear. Speaking out didn’t ruin me. Staying silent almost did.