There are moments in life when reality feels more like a Stephen King novel than actual life. For me, that novel was The Shining—except there were no haunted hotels, just a house that became my own personal nightmare. And the oppressor, known to others as “husband,” could have given Jack Torrance a run for his money.
On countless nights, I felt like I was trapped in a horror movie. Not the kind you can turn off or walk away from, but the kind where you’re the main character, and there’s no pause button, no escape. The house was a mess of broken doors, holes in the walls, and dinner meals that never even made it to a fork. It wasn’t just the physical chaos—it was the mental and emotional debris that left the deepest scars.
The Horror of Living the Nightmare
Every day, I felt like I was tiptoeing around a ticking time bomb. One minute, everything seemed fine (or at least I was pretending it was), and the next, it was like someone flipped a switch, and the nightmare began. He was always drinking, always angry, and always just a breath away from completely losing it. “Call the police! Call them!” he’d yell, “You’ll all be dead before they get here. I’ll stand at the door and let them shoot me. I’ll go down fighting. Don’t mess with me—you’ll watch your kids go first. It hurts more that way.”
The scariest part wasn’t even the broken things around the house or the dinners that ended up in the trash. It was the fear that one day, I wouldn’t make it out alive. I would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, terrified that I’d never get to tell my family the truth about what was happening to me and my kids. Every loud noise, every shadow in the hallway, felt like the start of the end.
The Perfect Husband Act
And here’s the kicker—everyone around us thought he was an angel. Oh, the irony! The perfect husband, the loving father, the life of the party. If only they knew the monster that lurked behind that charming smile. It’s amazing how well someone can play a role, isn’t it? He was like the ultimate actor, putting on a flawless performance for the world while we lived in our private horror show.
The problem with mental and emotional abuse is that it doesn’t leave visible marks. You can’t show someone a bruise or a scar and say, “Look, here’s the proof.” Instead, it’s all about the invisible wounds—the ones that eat away at your spirit, your confidence, and your sense of self. And when everyone around you thinks your abuser is a saint, it makes it that much harder to reach out for help. I tried once to tell one of his family members, someone I thought would understand, and all I got was, “Why are you acting like a victim of abuse?” Quietly, I whispered, “Because I am.”
The First of Many Scary Nights
One night, after a day of working and caring for three young kids, I finally managed to fall asleep. But I was jolted awake by the sound of my son crying. In my groggy state, I woke up to find the oppressor next to me with a sharp knife in his hand. My heart stopped as he asked me, in the most chillingly innocent voice, “How do you think it would feel to push this knife straight into your heart?”
Panic flooded my system, but I knew I had to stay calm. I quickly rolled away and scrambled out of bed, my heart pounding out of my chest. That’s when I found my son in the bathroom, tears streaming down his face because he’d wet his pants. He looked so scared as if he’d just experienced a nightmare of his own. The redness on his cheek looked like the result of a hard smack—one I knew he hadn’t given himself.
Meanwhile, my other two kids were still asleep, blissfully unaware of the horror that had just unfolded. I stood there, frozen, not knowing how to move or what to do. And then I looked back at the oppressor, who was standing in the doorway, holding the knife. He was smiling—no, laughing—at me, his eyes dancing with a twisted delight as he waved the knife around in a slow, mocking circle.
At that moment, I felt the true weight of the fear I had been living under. This wasn’t just about me anymore—my kids were in danger too. The reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks, but I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t afford to leave or divorce him. Everyone would just tell me to be more understanding, and that marriage takes a lot of work.
The Physical Mess of Mental Abuse
Mental abuse is like a wrecking ball to your soul. It chips away at you, piece by piece, until you’re just a shell of the person you used to be. You start to doubt yourself, question your worth, and feel like you’re trapped in a maze with no way out. Every insult, every mind game, every threat—it all adds up until you’re drowning in a sea of despair.
And let’s not forget the physical mess that comes with it. The holes in the walls from him punching them to demonstrate how he could ruin your face, the broken door from nights of rage, and the dinners that end up scattered across the floor. It’s like living in a war zone, except the enemy is the person who’s supposed to love you.
Why It’s So Hard to Leave
People often ask, “Why didn’t you just leave?” as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. But when you’re in the middle of it, leaving feels like an impossible task. You’re trapped in a cycle of fear, manipulation, and hopelessness. You tell yourself that maybe today will be different, that maybe he’ll change, that maybe it’s not as bad as it seems, or worse, maybe it’s your fault, and you need to be better.
Deep down, you know it’s just wishful thinking. The truth is, leaving isn’t just about walking out the door. It’s about breaking free from a mental prison where you’re locked behind thick concrete walls and guarded gates, with people ready to shoot you down if you try to escape. It’s about finding the courage to face the unknown, to risk everything for a chance at peace. And that’s not something that happens overnight. This is why The Shawshank Redemption is one of my all-time favorite movies.
Surviving and Moving Forward
What did I do after that first night of terror? I stayed and suffered for several more long years and added two more kids into my prison cell. Ignorant people often ask me, “Why did you have so many kids with him if he was that bad?” I didn’t have an answer back then, but after years of therapy, I finally learned the reason why—sexual coercion. It’s a form of manipulation and control that occurs when someone pressures, guilts, or forces another person into sexual activity against their will, using tactics that range from subtle manipulation to outright threats.
Thinking back, I remember the countless times the oppressor would find ways to make me feel guilty or scared for refusing to be intimate with him. “You don’t love me like this other person! You’re not my f*cken wife! You’re so nasty!” And as uncomfortable as I felt, I would give in to make him happy or to keep the peace. I was fighting for another day to plan an escape.
The fear, the chaos, the horror—it’s all behind me now. But the memories remain, like a distant echo of a life I survived. I’m not going to lie and say it was easy or that I’m completely healed. Healing is a lifelong journey. But I’m here, and I’m stronger for it.
If you’re reading this and you’re still trapped in your own horror story, know that you’re not alone. There’s a way out, and there’s life on the other side. It might take time, it might be terrifying, but you can do it. And when you do, you’ll finally be able to close the book on that chapter and start writing a new one—one that’s full of hope, healing, and a future where you’re no longer living in fear.
