When Breathing Was the Only Victory

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is simply breathe, I remember those days vividly the crushing weight the feeling of being utterly trapped the world shrinking down to the next painful moment It wasn't just physical hurt it was a deep erosion of the spirit, a suffocating darkness where hope felt like a cruel joke someone else told. There was a time when my own reality felt like a prison sentence I hadn't earned The details as They’re etched deep, scars on the soul more than the skin The fear was constant a low hum beneath everything making even small movements feel dangerous. Trust wasn't just broken it felt like it had been ripped out and stomped on, One tends to learn to live on high alert, every sense screaming waiting for the next blow physical emotional whatever form it took.

I know that hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach. The one where you look in the mirror and don't recognize the person staring back. Where shame, even though it wasn't yours to carry, wraps around you like a lead blanket. The isolation is brutal. You feel like you're on the other side of an unbreakable glass wall from everyone else, screaming silently while the world carries on, oblivious.

Getting out? That’s a whole different kind of battle. It’s rarely a single, dramatic escape It’s more like chipping away at concrete with a spoon It takes a terrifying amount of courage just to admit, even to yourself, that this is not your life sentence. That you deserve more than just survival. For me, that flicker of defiance was the first fragile lifeline. Maybe it was a tiny voice inside whispering "No more," or a fleeting moment of clarity seeing the situation for the horror it truly was.

Leaving felt like stepping off a cliff blindfolded. The fear of the unknown was almost worse than the known terror. Where do you go? How do you start? The practical hurdles safety, shelter, basic needs are massive. But the internal ones are Rebuilding trust in your own judgment, silencing the internalized voice of the abuser, learning that your needs and feelings matte that’s the long, hard road.

Healing isn't linear Oh boy it's an ft understatement. Some days felt like monumental leaps forward. Others, I’d be right back in that pit of despair, triggered by a smell, a sound, a date on the calendar. There were moments I wanted to give up, convinced the darkness would always win. Therapy wasn't an instant fix, but it became a safe harbor. Connecting with others who truly understood, who spoke the same silent language of survival, was oxygen. It wasn't about comparing scars it was about shared strength, about being seen and believed without question.