I thought I was safe until he compared me to my mother

For years, I carried a Swiss army knife hidden in my sock. My brother and I did it not to hurt anyone, but to survive. We lived in a house where violence was the only language we understood, and we were just children trying to protect each other from the man who was supposed to be our father.

I didn't realize I was in an abusive relationship until I was ten or twelve. By then, the fear was already a constant companion. I tried to shield my younger brother from the worst of it, but the damage was done. We learned to lie to our father to get to social services appointments. We learned to hide our address. We learned that the police were the only thing that could stop the violence, even if it meant my mother had to choose between us and her freedom.

I realized I was being strangled and compared to my mother, and that moment of hatred was the only thing that finally pushed me to leave.

The turning point for me came when I was fourteen or fifteen. I finally told my stepfather to shut up. It was my first act of defense, a small crack in the wall of silence that had held our family together. But the violence didn't stop. It escalated. My sister left home at eighteen, and eventually, the police filed a complaint after a hospital visit. We spent time in a shelter for victims of domestic violence, but the shadow of my father followed us.

He sent me a video of himself practicing shooting. I visited him in prison starting when I was twelve or thirteen, hugging him and writing to him, trying to make sense of the monster who was also my dad. But the truth was too heavy to carry. On July 31, 2018, he killed my mother at a roundabout and then shot himself. He hid her body in the freezer. The world stopped spinning that day. My brother and I were placed in foster care for a year and a half, and I felt like I had lost my innocence forever.

Even after my parents were gone, the trauma followed me. I started a business and traveled solo around the world, trying to rebuild my self-esteem. I went to Laos and other countries, hoping to find myself again. But I was still carrying the weight of my childhood. I felt immense guilt whenever I experienced joy, as if I didn't deserve it. I had hidden scars that no one could see.

Then I met a partner who made me feel small again. He caused me severe depression. One day, he strangled me. As I struggled for air, he told me I was like my mother. That comparison broke something inside me. I felt deep hatred towards him, but more importantly, I realized I was being controlled. I had lost my self-esteem.

That moment of strangulation was the final straw. I realized that I couldn't stay in a relationship where I was being compared to the woman who had been murdered. I decided to leave to stop my depression. It wasn't easy. I had to rebuild my self-trust from scratch. I started writing a book about my life, titled *I Stopped Being Afraid*. Writing it was the beginning of my healing process.

Now, I live with my mother's best friend. I have a brother and a sister. We are trying to find a new normal. I met a respectful partner after rebuilding my self-worth, but I still carry the anxiety and PTSD triggers from my childhood. I know my childhood self is still hidden inside me, waiting to be found.

I decided to stop lying about my vulnerability. I want to help others recognize their suffering. I believe my mother would want me to have a new family. Her strength lives within me, even if I don't always feel it. I learned that self-trust is the foundation for trusting others. And I learned that violent men cannot be good fathers, no matter how much they try to hide it. I am still healing, but I am no longer afraid.