MY STORY

23/08/2024 TRIGGER WARNING- DVS

I have held a lot of shame with this part of my story. I have never spoken about it really with anyone other than my son.

What I have learnt over the years is that holding onto the shame has settled within my body and to release that shame is to allow myself to be fully seen as me. It has taken me nearly 25 years to be able to do this without the sick fear within my stomach taking over.

I also hope that one day that maybe my story gives someone the courage to change the path that they may find themselves on, to give them the strength to use their sacred NO and change their path.

Thank you for witnessing. Just a Fyi – there’s a trigger warning for DV in this story.

At 16, I should have been out there—dancing under the club lights, laughing until my stomach hurt, falling into the arms of a carefree love, going to school parties, finishing school. That’s what they say you’re a teenage years are for, right?

But that wasn’t going to be my story.

Instead, I was going to live a life that most couldn’t imagine, one shaped by fear, survival, and choices I never should’ve had to make. My world wasn’t full of parties and freedom—it was going to be full of silence, bruises, and a desperate fight for a future that felt just out of reach.

Here is my story.

Having my very first boyfriend felt like stepping into a new world. I was finally seen by a boy I liked—he was much older, from out of town, and seemed to carry with him an air of mystery that swept me up. We started as friends, I actually was into his friend, but before long, I fell for him completely, captivated by his sweet words and promises. It was all fun at first, the thrill of something new and exciting.

But that thrill didn’t last. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment things changed. It’s hazy in my memory, but I do recall the first time he crossed the line. A comment, a harsh tone, the first slap —it shocked me, jolting me like cold water. But instead of confronting it, I turned inward, convincing myself that it was somehow my fault. I was the problem.

As time went on, the outbursts got worse. What started as words became something darker, something I hid from everyone. The bruises, the lies, the excuses—I buried them all. Friends stopped calling, drifting away as if they could sense the shift but didn’t know how to reach me.

My family, though I lived at home, seemed distant, angry even. I felt trapped in a bubble of silence, unable to speak the truth, unable to ask for help. Then there were those nights—nights when the weight of it all became too much, and I found myself on my knees, screaming silently to the gods, the universe, to anyone who might listen. "Take me away," I’d cry. "Help me, please." No matter how loud my heart screamed for help, I never ever considered ending my life. I truly wanted to live, to survive—desperate for someone, anyone, to just see me again. To save me from the darkness that was swallowing me whole.

I was scared—terrified, really. How could I, Lissa, the most bolshy teenager this side of the mountain, who stood up to bullies and liked to scrap and who was feisty af , have become this shell of a person? The fire that used to burn inside me had dimmed, replaced by fear and so much shame.

The girl who once had no problem standing her ground now found herself cowering in silence, afraid of the very person who once made her feel seen. Her first supposed love.

The days and months blurred together, and the things that used to excite me—like my music, hanging out in nature —now just made me sick. It felt like I was losing myself piece by piece, and I couldn't stop it. The one friend I had left stayed by my side, offering what comfort she could.

She didn’t even know the half of it. I remember her sitting with me the day I took the pregnancy test. We both watched as those two lines appeared, clear as day. And just like that, my life shattered before my eyes. what I didn’t know in that moment, what I couldn’t see through the haze of fear and heartbreak, was that those two lines weren’t just the end of something—they were the beginning.

My life had fallen apart, yes, but it was also being rebuilt, piece by piece, on a path I had yet to discover. That test put me on a trajectory toward my future, one I hadn’t chosen but one that would ultimately shape who I was meant to become.

Pregnant at 17, I found myself trapped in a reality I never thought possible. The boy I had once fallen for, the one who whispered sweet words and promises, was now the same boy who beat me—bruising not just my body but my spirit. Why? I still don’t know. What I did know was the growing dread in my heart, the fear that no matter how much I cried out inside, I was invisible.

He forced me to do things that shattered pieces of my soul, leaving me empty. And now, I was carrying his child. The nightmare felt endless, like I was suffocating in slow motion. When the beatings stopped for a while, a flicker of hope sparked inside me. Maybe things would be okay. Maybe he would change.

I clung to that hope, desperate for something good to come from this darkness. By the time I reached seven months, it started again. Only this time, he was cunning—never striking me near my belly, as if sparing the child absolved him of the violence.

The blows weren’t as hard, but they left deep emotional scars, ones I tried to cover up with my silence and shame.

Then my son was born, after what felt like an eternity in labour. I held him in my arms, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe that everything would finally be different.

But the change didn’t last. I was alone—physically and emotionally. His father was rarely around, leaving me to raise this beautiful boy with only the support of my parents. I was going to be one of those people- A teenage Solo mother of all things.

The disgust and judgement I received would have destroyed a lesser person. I felt abandoned by the very person who had promised to love me. It was a new kind of loneliness, one that ached deep in my bones, as I carried the weight of motherhood on my shoulders.

My son had just learned to walk not long when everything came to a head. One day, something triggered him, and I felt in horror as my beautiful boy waddled out the door something big was coming.

My heart froze. Before I could react, I felt the searing pain as his boot connected with my tailbone. The force was so intense, I swear it had broken. And there, in that moment of agony, with my younger sister and brother terrified as they witnessed it all, something inside me snapped. I couldn’t live like this any longer. I wouldn’t. I had to protect my son. I had to save myself.

Fifteen minutes later, my mother burst through the door. I had never seen her like that—so wild, so fierce, like a force of nature. She stood up to him in a way I never could, and in those moments, she became the embodiment of all the strength I had lost.

She kicked him out, and it felt like a lifeline had been thrown to me in a sea of darkness. The police were called, charges were filed, and a protection order was put in place. I was then sent into hiding away from the house with my baby boy, and for the first time, we were free. Free from the violence, the fear, the manipulation. Not free from the deep shame.

That was the day I became a cycle breaker. And though the road ahead wasn’t easy, it was the beginning of a new chapter—one where we could finally breathe again. A future of hope began to take shape in my mind—a future where my son would never know the cycle of violence, where he would be safe from the darkness of drug deals, dodgy dangerous people and all the chaos that came with that world. I knew, in my heart, that I could break the chain. I had to. There was no other choice.

My love for my son gave me the strength to fight, to stand tall, and to choose a different path, one where he could thrive. What I realized in those moments was that my strength had always been there. It had never left me, even when I felt at my weakest. But I couldn’t do it alone.

I needed my tribe—the people who had always loved me, who stepped forward when I couldn’t carry the weight any longer. That heard me when I finally spoke and asked for help. They took the reins when I needed them most, guiding me through the storm until I could stand on my own again.

Together, we built a new future. One filled with hope, with love, and with the unwavering belief that my son deserved so much more than the life I had been trapped in. That was the moment I realized—I wasn’t just a survivor. I was a cycle breaker, paving the way for something better, something brighter. And for the first time in a long time, I felt the warmth of possibility surrounding us.

Even today, some people throw snide and bitter remarks my way, call me a bitch when I’ve spoken up —criticizing me for being too much, too loud, too assertive. They say I’m too vocal for my own good, for speaking up for others, for questioning what feels wrong.

I will never be silenced again.

So, when people ask me why I am so feisty, why I speak up when others turn their backs. Why I want to help others so much, why I am on the path that I am now so ferociously on.

Well, I fight for those who haven’t found their voice or their place in this world yet. I fight for them, and I will keep fighting, I will help to keep those, rising and lifting others with me.

Every day, I stand and fight for that 16-year-old girl.

I always will.