My body started to quit on me. I developed anxiety, panic disorder, I was constantly nauseous, and constantly violently ill. My brain had checked out. I had moments of being coherent, and knowing something wasn’t right, but they were short lived. E broke me.

He knew where to hurt me physically, and how, so there were no marks. He raped me. He yelled at me for a plethora of things, from accidentally breaking something while washing the dishes, to spilling a drink, wanting to talk to my mom, having a thought of my own (a rare thing). To this day, I still panic and withdrawal when I accidentally break something, or screw up in any normal, human way. He would love bomb me, and then belittle me. I was never allowed to grieve. If a kitchen drawer wasn’t completely closed, or a cabinet left open, he would tell me it was my dead husband checking in, playing a prank, and letting me know he was happy for me. E was cruel, and relentless in making sure I stayed broken. I wasn’t allowed to have friends or family of my own.

He took me to churches that were LGBT friendly, with claims that I was pansexual. I listened to pastors speak blasphemy, with claims Jesus was gay, or trans. I only became more distant, more confused. He kept sex offenders and thieves, and abusers in our circle, surrounding me with more of himself. He touted his amazing ability to keep me safe, to whoever was around. Safety was a foreign concept. An illusion made up in fairytales.

E told me I was an alcoholic, and I believed him. He told me I was a horrible person, that every bad thing that happened to me was deserved. I believed him. E told me my family hated me, they regretted adopting me, they were better off without me. I believed him.

This abuse went on for several years. I prayed he would just finally kill me, I yearned for it. I needed it. But he was loving the power too much. In me he had everything he wanted. Until one morning.