For the past six months, I was stuck in a situation that was slowly breaking me down, but I had no other choice. I had nowhere else to go. The place I was staying should have been my refuge, but instead, it became a place of torment, one that mirrored the very thing I’ve been trying to heal from for years.
Every day, I had to deal with a man I barely knew making inappropriate comments, giving me those looks that made my skin crawl, and behaving in ways that triggered me deeply. It was like living with a shadow of my past—the 16 years of abuse I endured from my stepfather came flooding back. Every word, every gesture, every time he crossed a line, it was as if I was reliving that trauma all over again. But I stayed, because I didn’t have any other options. My safety, my housing, and my basic needs were tied to tolerating his behavior.
Even though I’m in a safer place now, it feels like I can’t fully escape. I’m constantly on edge, waiting for the next violation, the next moment when I’ll feel unsafe again. My mind plays tricks on me, convincing me that he’s outside my door or peering through the window, just like he used to when I was there. I find myself checking my phone, wondering if there’s another inappropriate text with an ultimatum attached to it, one more demand I can’t ignore.
The worst part is the lingering presence of his gaze. Even now, I catch myself looking over my shoulder, feeling watched, and it’s exhausting. It’s not just about physical space anymore—it’s about the way he’s invaded my mental space, making it hard to feel safe anywhere. I wonder if he’s sitting at his table or bedroom window, watching me like he used to. That gaze is something I’ll never forget. It haunts me, even though I’m miles away.
Being triggered daily, and having no way out, wore me down in ways I didn’t even realize until now. I thought once I was physically safe, everything would go back to normal, but that’s not how trauma works. The wounds are still open, and it’s hard to feel at ease when your body is stuck in a state of hyper-vigilance. It’s like I’m constantly waiting for the next threat, even when I know logically that I’m not in danger anymore.
I’m trying to heal, but it’s so hard to come back from that kind of violation—especially when it reminds you of wounds you’ve spent a lifetime trying to heal. The mind keeps playing tricks, convincing me that the threat is still there, lurking just outside the door, and it’s exhausting. It’s a struggle every day to remind myself that I’m safe now, to believe it, to feel it.
If you’ve ever felt this way—like you’ve left a dangerous situation, but the danger still lives in your mind—you’re not alone. Healing isn’t about removing yourself from the physical space alone; it’s about finding ways to reclaim your mental and emotional space. And I’m still working on that. Some days are better than others, but I’ve come too far to let what he did, and what he represents, control me anymore.
It’s going to take time. I know that. And even though I’m still haunted by it, I’m not giving up on finding peace. I’m working on trusting again—trusting myself, trusting the safety I’ve built around me, and believing that I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder.
One verse that has given me comfort during this time is from Isaiah 41:10:
"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
This reminds me that even in my darkest moments, I am not alone, and God is with me, giving me strength to push through.
Healing isn’t linear, and it’s not easy, but it’s possible. And even when the ghosts of the past try to pull me back, I’m learning how to live for the future I deserve.
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