Marching Through Madness — My Survival Story

I’m a survivor of narcissistic abuse, sexual assault, and systemic failure. I share this not for pity, but for truth. For every woman who’s been silenced, dismissed, or retraumatized by the very systems meant to protect her. I write this to reclaim my voice—and help others find theirs. 

It took me until my fifties to realize my worth. I’d spent decades carrying the weight of a childhood shaped by a man who called himself Dad—a dictator who stripped his children of confidence and self-esteem. I still managed to marry, raise children, and hold good jobs. I’m intelligent. I carry myself well. But until recently, no one knew how little I thought of myself—even me. 

Then came the man who nearly destroyed me. He was younger, persistent, and now I understand: he was conditioning me for narcissistic abuse. What followed was three years of daily trauma. I ugly-cried every single day. That’s over 1,000 days of emotional devastation. 

He killed my cat. Threatened my life and my children’s lives. Blew up my truck—my only transportation—just days after sending me to the ICU. I was hospitalized for 18 days, fighting for my life. The infection that nearly killed me came from a sexual assault. I went home on a PICC line, receiving grapefruit-sized balls of antibiotics. My kids administered them. I had four surgeries and a blood transfusion. 

Two days after I got home, my truck exploded. I was one of those cars you see on the freeway engulfed in flames. 

I had proof—medical records, pictures, witnesses. I’d been choked, stabbed, assaulted, and received death threats in writing and on video. But when I finally filed charges, I thought someone would help me. I thought the system would protect me. 

It didn’t. 

The DA never contacted me. A judge denied my protective order and called him “honey” and “baby” in court. My legal team was stunned. They wanted to move the case, but I was scared. He was still stalking me. 

I was re-victimized by the very people who were supposed to help. The police ignored my reports. Advocates mocked me. One laughed when I asked about a Christmas meal after having all my teeth pulled from the damage he caused. I had a minor child at home and no food. 

The Attorney General’s office helped with the hospital bill—but not with replacing my teeth. They wouldn’t relocate me because we didn’t live together, even though he saw me almost daily.

He got six days in county jail. No restitution. No accountability. He still stalks me online, reminding me that someday he’ll make good on his threat. 

After the justice system failed me, I turned inward. I went through three women’s centers and maxed out every therapy program they offered. I showed up for every session—for me, and for my sons who witnessed it all. I wasn’t just healing from physical trauma. I was healing from being ignored and dismissed. 

When therapy ran out, I didn’t stop. I found free entrepreneurship training through Memorial Assistance Ministries. I enrolled in the Navigator program and earned certificates from the University of Maryland, the University of Valencia, and even Harvard. I got my graphic design certification and used it to create empowerment products and visual storytelling pieces that spoke to the pain I couldn’t always say out loud. 

I earned 17 certificates through the Texas Advocacy Project, becoming a trauma-informed, lived experience advocate. I did all of this while healing, growing, and approaching my 60th birthday. 

Now here I am—still unable to find a job. I have all this knowledge, all this training, and nowhere to apply it. I’m still standing. Still creating. Still trying. But the silence from the world around me is deafening. 

I haven’t resolved the dental issues yet, and that alone has impacted my confidence and ability to fully engage. There’s a real possibility I’ll face a housing crisis soon. Living on disability isn’t sustainable. 

But I’m not giving up. I’ve come too far, learned too much, and built too many bridges to stop now. I’m looking for a miracle—not because I’m helpless, but because I’ve done everything I can on my own. I’m ready for a door to open. Ready for someone to see the value in what I’ve built, in what I know, in who I am. 

I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for a chance to turn all this lived experience into impact. Into legacy. Into something that finally feels like justice.