Living Through What Tried to Break Me
I was 18 when my life completely changed. Just months after my mom died in a tragic car accident, I was barely surviving; grieving, lost, and trying to hold myself together. That’s when I met him. He was a local bartender, and right there was the first red flag: I was underage. But instead of protecting me, he poured drinks, gave me attention, and pulled me into his world. At that point in my life, I was desperate for comfort, desperate for someone to tell me everything would be okay. He seemed like that person.
What I didn’t see then was grooming. He knew I was vulnerable, grieving, and searching for something to hold on to. He offered what appeared to be safety, but it was really control wrapped in charm. He positioned himself as the answer to all my pain, but what he was really doing was weaving himself into my life in a way that made it nearly impossible to imagine living without him.
The relationship that followed lasted ten years, and it was abusive in every way, emotional, physical, and sexual. He slowly chipped away at who I was. Emotionally, he kept me under his thumb with constant criticism, gaslighting, and isolation. He wanted me to believe I was worthless, that I couldn’t survive without him. He dictated what I wore, who I could see, and made sure I felt cut off from my family.
The physical abuse was unpredictable. Sometimes it was explosive, other times subtle but still terrifying. I lived in a constant state of walking on eggshells, never knowing what might set him off. The sexual abuse was another layer altogether, forced intimacy, demands I couldn’t refuse, moments where my body didn’t feel like mine. I had already been sexually abused at 14 by a neighbor I trusted, so being trapped again in sexual violence felt especially horrific; it reactivated old wounds and made every violation cut even deeper. That’s something people don’t talk about enough: how sexual violence can exist within a relationship and how damaging it is to feel like you have no control over your own body in a place that’s supposed to be safe.
And then there was the fear. His ties to a notorious motorcycle club meant I believed every threat he made. Whether it was real or a tactic to control me, it worked. He told me if I left, they’d come after me, or worse, they’d hurt my family. I lived under the weight of that fear for years. It wasn’t just him I was scared of; it was the entire world he convinced me was out to get me.
That cycle of fear, violence, apology, and manipulation lasted nearly a decade. And it broke me down. There were nights when I didn’t want to be alive anymore, when the despair felt heavier than anything I could carry. At one point, I tried to end my life because I genuinely couldn’t see another way out. But when I woke up, something inside me shifted. I knew if I stayed, I wouldn’t survive.
I see you. You are not to blame. And you are not alone.
That was when I finally decided to leave. It wasn’t some dramatic, movie-style escape; it was messy and terrifying. For years, I had secretly kept a “go bag” in the trunk of my car, containing my passport, Social Security card, birth certificate, some cash, and photos of my mom. That bag represented the part of me that still believed I might get out one day. When the time came, I called my sister, packed what I could, and within 24 hours, I was out of New York.
Leaving, though, wasn’t the end. If anything, it was the beginning of the hardest part. Trauma doesn’t disappear just because you walk out the door. Even today, years later, safe and married to the most supportive and loving husband, that relationship still creeps in. It shows up in my nightmares, in my triggers, in the way I sometimes react without even realizing it. Healing is not linear. It is a lifelong journey.
But I’ve also learned that healing and purpose can coexist. I returned to school, earned my master’s degree in social work, and became a licensed clinical social worker. I built a career around supporting survivors of domestic violence and sexual abuse, as well as people experiencing suicidal thoughts. I’ve worked on crisis lines, in domestic violence agencies, and now as a clinician specializing in crisis intervention.
My story isn’t something I hide; it’s something I use. Being a survivor doesn’t make me less of a clinician; it makes me a stronger one. I know what it feels like to be trapped, to believe you have no way out, to feel too ashamed or too broken to reach for help. And I also know what it feels like to finally find safety, to build a new life, and to realize you deserve more than just surviving.
Domestic violence thrives in silence, and that’s why I share my story. If even one person reading this feels less alone, if even one person realizes they don’t have to stay, then it’s worth it.
To anyone still in it: I see you. You are not to blame. And you are not alone.
By: Caitlin Ruzycky, LCSW