It was while I sat in my running car inside our garage, convinced I was ready to die, that my son walked in looking for me. In that moment, everything stopped. I knew then that I was done—done letting him destroy me mentally, physically, and emotionally. I said it out loud, even if only to myself: I am not ready to die. In fact, I am ready to be reborn.
Back in 2010, I was 21 years old and had just graduated from esthetics school. I was young, confident, and thriving—crushing goals and loving life. I wasn’t searching for love, but I met a boy who felt like everything I had ever wanted. We shared interests, laughed constantly, and he showered me with compliments and affection. I felt chosen. It wouldn’t be until nearly eight years later that I learned this intense attention had a name: love bombing, a common tactic in narcissistic abuse.
We married quickly, and I became pregnant soon after. When I was nine months pregnant, my husband was involved in a horrific drunk-driving accident. He rolled his car more than ten times and suffered a broken back, nose, and shoulder. Despite my massive belly, I bathed him, washed his hair, and dressed him. That was my first glimpse of his selfishness. I also learned he had cheated on me at a strip club that same night. I blamed the alcohol. I believed he would change because he loved me. He didn’t.
After our son was born, the manipulation, lies, and abuse escalated. Postpartum, I felt exhausted and insecure, like many new mothers. Instead of support, I received criticism—about my body, my energy, my worth. The cheating continued, and somehow it was always my fault. He disappeared for nights at a time, only to return with apologies and promises of sobriety and family unity. Growing up in a divorced home, I clung desperately to the idea of keeping our family whole.
In January 2014, the abuse turned physical. An argument about him going to the bar spiraled out of control. He chased me, punched a hole in our bedroom door, and pinned me down—his elbow in my cheek, his forearm pressed against my throat. He beat me with objects, screamed insults, and left me with black eyes and pure terror. I escaped and called my cousin. My husband was arrested for attempted strangulation, domestic battery, and DUI. He was put on probation and ordered to remain sober for two years. I stayed, believing sobriety would fix everything. It didn’t.
During those two sober years, there were moments of happiness. I trusted him again. We had another baby and bought a home. On the outside, we looked perfect. Then our son was diagnosed with Autism. When probation ended, the drinking returned. He blamed the stress—the baby, the diagnosis, the pressure. His need for control intensified quickly.
He took my car keys and money, dictated what I wore, where I went, and who I saw. I wasn’t allowed dark lipstick, certain clothes, or time with my family. Buying a simple t-shirt made me “selfish.” He sprayed me with a hose, dumped beer on me, hit me with a mop, and pushed me down the stairs. I kept asking myself why I wasn’t enough, why he couldn’t love me better. I believed it was my fault.
The day after Christmas in 2016, he planned to leave for poker night. I begged him to stay home with us. He shoved me, crushed me in his arms until I felt my organs shift, then hit me across the face with my son’s toy. I tried to hide in the bathroom, but he slammed my arm in the door repeatedly. I escaped and called my brother. He left for three days—and yes, I let him come back.
In 2017, my daughter was born. The verbal abuse worsened. After three children, he told me my body was worthless and blamed his cheating on me. Looking back, I can’t believe I endured those words. As my autistic son’s needs increased, we moved to Arizona for better resources. I hoped a fresh start would save us. Instead, it isolated me further.
We spent his retirement savings—over $8,000—to move. Two weeks later, I was alone with three children while he drank away our last dollars. I tracked his spending through our bank account. We lost everything—our camper, truck, car—one by one. He always had money for alcohol.
When I stood up for myself, the intimidation worsened. He backed me into corners, pressed his forehead against mine, and used fear to silence me. I had learned about abuse tactics by then, and that knowledge made him more dangerous. One night at 3 a.m., he left without a word, shut off his phone, and closed our bank account. I didn’t hear from him for two weeks.
Friends and family saved us, wiring money and ordering groceries. After years of control, blame, and financial abuse, I broke. I sat in the garage, turned on the car, and gave up—until my son opened the door. I shut the car off and called the National Domestic Violence Hotline. They helped me find safety, but I had to return home to Idaho.
Leaving Arizona broke my heart. I filed for divorce. It was brutal. As I regained my power, he escalated. He broke into my home and stole my furniture while I was at work. I hired a domestic violence attorney and received support from Family Service Alliance. I learned the rules: no contact, only communication about the children. The abuse hasn’t fully ended—but I am no longer married to him.
Narcissistic abuse traps you. You stay because you are brainwashed into believing they need you and will change. They won’t. They want control. If I can offer any advice, it’s this: educate yourself. Break the cycle. There is life after abuse. It takes an average of seven attempts to leave because of trauma bonding—the addictive highs and devastating lows that chemically alter your brain.
We don’t stay because we’re weak. We stay because we are manipulated, afraid, ashamed, and isolated. This was never our fault.
To anyone still trapped: I am here. Find help. Tell someone. You deserve safety, peace, and love. You can do this.
