A Toxic Entanglement
I talk a lot about “the system” when I write, and I’m not sure all of my readers fully understand the scope and complexity of what I mean when I use that phrase. When I talk about the system, I’m not only referring to the legal and criminal justice system, but to the many institutions that govern our daily lives — social services, healthcare, government, housing and rental markets, and the job market. I want to open with this clarification because when I say “the system,” I mean all of it.
When I started this blog over five years ago, my goal was to give a voice to some of society’s most neglected and misunderstood issues and demographics. One issue I avoided for years was domestic violence, particularly violence against women. I had a valid reason: I was in an abusive relationship and was afraid of how my partner would react if he read my blog.
I was in that relationship from September 2016 until May 2021. Even now, nearly a year after leaving, it has taken me this long to write about it. Much of that time was spent trying to secure my own safety — a process far more difficult than it should have been, and one that gave me even more reason to share my story.
If I learned anything from that relationship and its aftermath, it’s that “the system” does not care about abused women (or abused men, in some instances). It’s no wonder women around the world paint their hands and march on the International Day to Eliminate Violence Against Women. The statistics alone are staggering:
1 in 3 women globally experience physical or sexual violence in their lifetime.
Most violence against women is perpetrated by current or former partners.
In 2020, 81,000 women were killed worldwide — 47,000 by intimate partners or family members.
And those numbers are likely underreported. Fewer than 40% of women seek help when they’re being abused. In the U.S., many don’t report because of the horror stories — stories that make victims wonder if enduring the abuse is easier than seeking help. Laws may exist to protect women, but laws don’t stop abusers who believe they’re justified.
My story is just one of many, but it illustrates why women stay long past the point where leaving feels possible.
As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse — abuse I didn’t disclose until years later — I had a deeply skewed understanding of healthy relationships and no sense of boundaries. Survivors often learn that early abuse sets the stage for cycles of abuse later in life, especially without support or intervention. I was no exception.
I was abused multiple times as a teenager, believing it was “normal.” My first abusive adult relationship was a nightmare — still the worst of all my abusers and the benchmark against which the others were measured. I sometimes wonder if I stayed with later abusers because they were “not as bad,” which felt like an upgrade. That thinking reflects how nonexistent my self-worth was.
When you’re constantly criticized and degraded by people who claim to love you, you stop believing anything about you is good — much less exceptional. You begin choosing partners who reinforce those beliefs. And the cycle repeats.
Before I go further into my story, I want to educate readers on the many forms abuse can take — especially the less obvious ones.
One tool that helped me understand my own experiences is the Power and Control Wheel, widely used by domestic violence agencies to illustrate patterns of abuse. I’ve included an image below because I’ll reference it throughout.
Despite its recognition among advocates and psychologists, this framework is not meaningfully acknowledged by the legal system or law enforcement — something that shaped many of my own experiences.
Several abusive relationships played direct roles in my legal troubles.
My first drug charges came six months after my first abusive adult relationship ended. I turned to drugs as a coping mechanism. At the time, they kept me alive — I was suicidal — but they eventually destroyed my life.
When I was first arrested, I assumed someone would ask what I’d been through. No one did. The courts didn’t care about trauma — only punishment. Jail became another layer of trauma. I got high the night I was released.
I did go to treatment eventually, but it focused on substance use, not trauma — like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet hole. The bleeding slowed, but the wound remained. And the cycle of abuse resumed.
One partner later tried to kill me. I went to the hospital with severe injuries; evidence was collected and he was arrested. Charges were reduced to assault with a deadly weapon, and after serving time, he was deported.
Another relationship lasted over two years and gave me my greatest gift — my son. Because we now co-parent successfully, I won’t detail that relationship here.
My next abuser was a sociopath — a master manipulator.
He “love-bombed” me, sensing vulnerability. Months in, he began selling heroin. I had just started therapy for childhood sexual abuse and was at my most vulnerable. I relapsed, and he encouraged it — eventually using drugs to control me.
He used threats, coercion, and violence. When I lost my job, he forced me to act as a drug mule because I had a car and license — telling me it was the only way I was “useful.”
Police raided our home twice. Both times I begged them to charge him so I could escape. Both times they let him go because he agreed to inform on other dealers.
They knew I was being abused. They knew I wanted help. They did nothing.
Eventually, he sent me to deliver heroin to a friend who overdosed hours later. I was charged with his death — a death that might have been prevented had police intervened earlier.
That experience cemented my belief: the system does not protect abused women.
Years later, after serving nearly five years in prison for that case, I began dating someone I thought was safe — someone I’d known since middle school.
I was wrong.
The abuse began with medication theft, escalated to manipulation, threats, and narcissistic psychological abuse. It was less visibly violent but more psychologically devastating.
During one incident, he overdosed after coercing me to obtain drugs. I called 911 and saved his life — yet I was jailed on a probation revocation due to a loophole in Good Samaritan protections.
I spent six months in jail for saving him.
When I tried to leave, he threatened to report me for his overdose and have me imprisoned again. Given my history with the justice system, that threat kept me trapped for years.
Over time, he overdosed multiple times. I saved him once; other times he was revived elsewhere. When he was jailed briefly, I finally felt free — but I was still entangled legally and emotionally.
Eventually, after further assaults, I gathered evidence and worked with his probation agent to have him removed from my home. Leaving required strategy, documentation, and immense risk.
Even after I left, the abuse continued — harassment, threats, stalking behaviors. I filed for restraining orders.
The first failed due to service issues.
The second was denied — despite his violent history and current incarceration.
The judge believed his claims over mine.
Weeks later, he contacted me from jail. My third attempt was denied on procedural grounds.
Let me be clear: no woman files for a restraining order lightly — let alone three times.
My ex remains incarcerated and may go to prison, but that doesn’t erase the fear. It gives him time to plan.
Stories in the news about women killed after being denied protection terrify me. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be next.
The system — legal, economic, social — consistently fails survivors:
Housing barriers trap women with abusers.
Custody systems sometimes favor abusers.
Employers punish victims for court absences.
I’ve lived all of that.
Today, I’m in a healthy relationship. I feel loved, valued, and safe — things that once felt foreign.
But the shadow of abuse lingers.
I live with complex PTSD, insomnia, memory issues, and chronic anxiety. Healing is ongoing — therapy, boundaries, self-care — but the damage is real.
Some nights I still lie awake wondering what my ex will do when he’s released. That fear doesn’t disappear just because the relationship ended.
That is the reality of surviving abuse.
I may be safe tonight as I finish writing this.
But the fear remains. Always.
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, please reach out for help. There are people who care and want to support you. I promise.
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