When Abuse Isn’t Visible: The Hidden Struggles

 Sometimes you can’t see the pain. You don’t see the war going on inside someone. You see a smile, but it never touches their eyes—and there’s a reason for that. You have no idea what someone might be carrying. Being around the person they love most might help… or it might not. I know that pain. I’ve felt it in my bones. I’ve watched it take people I love. I’ve lost my grandparents, two cousins, an aunt, my sister… and my own child. I don’t talk about it. But it’s always there.

I’ve screamed until my throat gave out. I’ve cried until I couldn’t breathe. I’ve dropped to my knees and begged for my child back. I never thought I’d feel the kind of pain my mom felt when she lost hers—now I know it too well. I’ve been furious. I’ve been broken. And the tears still come.

I was told to shut up like my voice didn’t matter. Told my feelings were worthless. That the things I cared about could just be replaced—like they meant nothing, even when I said they meant everything. I’ve been stalked. I’ve been thrown out of what was supposed to be my home. I’ve had to start over—new phone, new email, new address—just to feel a sliver of safety.

For a long time, I didn’t feel safe—like I was constantly being watched. Every move I made felt exposed. I kept getting gifts and food I never wanted, like someone was trying to buy their way back in. The messages never stopped—calls, texts, DMs. One minute it was “I miss you,” and the next, I was a “stupid bitch” who’d never be loved because I was too broken. It messed with my head. I never knew what was coming next.

I’ve gone on trips that were supposed to be fun, moments to breathe—but instead, I ended up fighting back tears because I was being harassed the whole time. The only peace I ever got was when I turned my phone off. All I wanted was to feel normal, to exist without being hunted. I had to make new accounts just so I could delete them—because somehow, I kept getting found. There are hundreds of message requests, all under different names, just trying to get a reaction out of me. It never really stops.

I’m so damn thankful for therapy. It gave me a space where I didn’t have to pretend. For once, I felt safe enough to speak—to really open up. Yeah, I’m broken in some ways, but I’m stronger than he ever thought I’d be. I found something real. I found someone who doesn’t run from my truth, someone who shows up and stays. I’m okay. I still have triggers. I still have rough days. The anger still creeps in sometimes. But I’m here—standing taller, stronger, and more myself than I’ve ever been.

I still have my cat—she’s still with me, and no, she can’t be replaced. Ever. And for the first time, I’m finally home. I have what I need. I don’t have to shrink myself or hide who I am. I can bake, I can crochet, and no one mocks me for it. I can watch the shows I love without being told they’re stupid. I’m allowed to have my own likes, my own opinions, and they’re respected. I don’t wake up from nightmares caused by being forced to watch things I begged not to—things that tore at me long after the screen went dark. And I’m not carrying everything alone anymore. The work, the life—it’s shared. I’m not surviving. I’m living.

Life looks different now. And honestly, I see things a lot more clearly. I know who actually cared—who was paying attention, even when I was pushing them away and telling them to screw off. Some people welcomed me back without hesitation, arms wide open. But now, there are others I just don’t trust anymore. And I don’t care. You didn’t show up when I needed you. You went behind my back and told my parents they “failed” just because I chose to cut you off. Maybe you didn’t know what was really happening—but that doesn’t give you the right to judge them. I’ll always defend my parents. They did the best they could, and they stood by me when it counted.

Just because you go to church, sit in a pew, or have your name on some membership list doesn’t make you a good Christian. Have you shown real compassion? Honestly, I haven’t seen it. Do you treat people the way you want to be treated? Probably not. And have you let your own pain blind you to the fact that someone else’s trauma might look different than yours? Yeah—you have. Being hurt doesn’t give you a free pass to hurt others or dismiss their story.

Am I a person with real feelings? Hell yes. Did I make a terrible decision? Yeah, I did. But I’ve grown. I’m stronger now. I see the red flags I used to ignore. I understand compassion on a deeper level. I’ve learned what real love looks like—the kind that doesn’t come with fear or control. I know what a healthy relationship feels like. Do we fight? Of course. But we take the time to step back, to breathe, to come back to the conversation when we’re ready. That’s growth. That’s love.

Am I still scared of my ex? Yeah, I am. Is he going to try to work his way back into my life? Maybe—but I’m not letting him. I’ve got proof of everything he did to me. I kept the receipts. He’s blocked. He can’t really reach me anymore. Every now and then, something slips through, but I’m safe now. I’m loved. I’m not alone. And as for him? He can go fuck himself.

 To my son, Connor Stephen—God, I miss you. You’d be a wild, curious two-year-old by now, probably running around and laughing at everything. You would’ve been the light in my life. But even though you’re not here, you still changed everything. Losing you broke me, but it also brought me home. You saved me in ways I didn’t even know I needed saving. Because of you, I found real love. Because of you, I learned what truly matters. I can’t hold you, but I feel you with me every day. You’re still here, in your own way. And I’ll never stop carrying you in my heart.

I know my son is surrounded by family who loves him and will take care of him until I make it home. He’s with three great-grandparents who, I believe with everything in me, are loving him unconditionally. He’s got two cousins and an aunt who are probably playing with him, laughing with him, just being close. And there are so many great aunts and uncles keeping watch, making sure he’s never alone. Knowing he’s up there, watching over me—knowing he’ll be looking out for any future siblings—brings me peace. It makes me feel safe. He may not be in my arms, but he’s not alone. And he never will be