#SurvivorStory

[reflectionswithbella]

BEYOND THE FLAMES : A POET’S FIGHT FOR LIFE

#BreastCancer #CancerJourney #CancerSurvivor #Fighter #Inspiration #Resilience #Hope #StrongerTogether #SelfCare #Healing #LifeLessons #NeverGiveUp #HealingJourney #MentalStrength #HealthJourney #SupportSystem #InspiringStories #MindsetMatters

28-year-old Jessica felt the world crash around her as she left the doctor’s office. The diagnosis of breast cancer loomed like a dark cloud over her life, casting a shadow on her future.  Devastated and searching for solace, she stopped by the nearest bookshop, which housed a cosy coffee shop where she hoped to gather her thoughts. As she entered the shop, the warm scent of freshly brewed…

[caesarandthecity]

The Monster Was Not Under the Bed

Since I was a child, they told me that monsters hide under the bed. That nightmares come at night, in the dark, and that somehow, I should fear what I couldn’t see. I used to be terrified of the dark, of something lurking just beyond my vision. I thought that something monstrous might happen while I was defenseless in my sleep. But I didn’t know, in my childish innocence, that the real monster never waited for nightfall. It didn’t hide in the shadows—it revealed itself in the daylight, where everyone could see, and yet no one did anything.

My greatest fear was never the bogeyman. There was never a monster in my closet or a nightmare waiting to haunt me while I slept. No, the true monster was always there, right beside me, wearing the mask of a mother. She wasn’t a creature from a dream—she was the one who terrified me, not in my sleep, but in the brutal reality of my childhood.

Growing up afraid of the world made me fear everything. I was terrified of horror movies, afraid of the monsters in them. Even werewolves made me anxious, as if they might catch me at night. But little did I know that the real monster was much closer than I ever imagined. I remember countless times when I showed love to my mother, just to avoid her aggression. I remember her smell—the cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other. That was when she was happiest—drunk and smoking.

I also remember the times she cooked my favorite recipe: carrot cake. Looking back, it wasn’t even that good, but as a child, it was the best thing in the world. It was simple, hastily made—because she never had the patience or love to make anything special for me. But still, I cherished it, hoping it meant she loved me too.

But these moments of love, these fleeting respites, were illusions. They were thin layers meant to cover the truth. The truth was that the monsters in horror movies—Chucky, Freddy Krueger, Jason—were nothing compared to the real monster. My mother was capable of far worse than anything in those stories. Living with her meant living in constant fear. I never knew what was coming next. I had to stay alert, always trying to please her, because if I didn’t, I would pay for it.

Her punishments were brutal, designed to tear me apart—not just physically, but emotionally. I wish I could tell you this was just one story of pain, but it’s only one of many. Even as a small child, I wished someone would come up to me and ask, “Are you okay?” But no one ever did. I had to carry that pain alone, bound by the silent pact between us. And the truth is, my silence wasn’t because I loved my mother—it was because I feared that one day, she really would succeed in killing me.

We made silent agreements, she and I. Unspoken pacts that I was forbidden to break. I could never speak of what happened behind closed doors. Each session of torture was just between us. She, my mother, my beloved mother. No one saw, no one could testify. The few who witnessed glimpses of her rage are no longer here. But they played their part. They defended me in small ways, because no one in their right mind could see a child beaten to the point of fainting and think it was normal.

I remember the first time she tried to kill me. I was still in preschool. She wrapped the cord of a clothing iron around my neck, tightening it until my skin broke under the pressure. The pain was sharp, but the thoughts were sharper. Why? Why would she do this to me? What had I done at six years old to deserve this? Was it because I was different? Did she see something in me, even then, that she couldn’t accept?

The cord left marks, and she made me cover them with a scarf. I went to school, not just with the scarf, but with the shame, the fear, and the lie she made me carry. She said if anyone found out, the punishment would be worse. When the teacher asked what happened, I smiled—an innocent, rehearsed smile—and said I had cut myself. But how does a child cut their neck? The scarf choked me almost as much as the secret did, a daily reminder of the horrors I lived through at home.

Her attempts to break me, to destroy me, didn’t stop there. They were constant, until I began to believe that I deserved it. When she beat me, when she wrapped the belt around my neck and told me she was going to kill me, I stopped resisting. I was already broken inside. I had come to believe that I was a despicable being, that I had earned every beating, every instance of her cruelty.

What haunts me most is not the physical pain, but the love I still felt for her. I loved her, despite everything. She was my world. Despite the violence, despite the fear, I still craved her love. I begged for it. I begged her to stop, to see me, to love me. But my words were swallowed by the silence between us.

I tried to share this pain with my sister. I showed her the scars—on my body and in my soul. But when I told her, her question hit me harder than any blow: But where was I? I never saw that. It hurts. It hurts deeply to know she never understood, never saw the reality I lived. And of course, she didn’t. The tortures happened only between me and my mother. They were secrets hidden in plain sight.

My mother’s lies and violence echo in my mind to this day, blending with questions that will never be answered. Why did she hate me so much? What did I do to deserve such treatment? It took me years to realize that the problem was never me. The monster wasn’t me. The monster was the figure society calls “mother,” but to me, she was the embodiment of terror.

[ulkaralakbarova]

Film Review: Breaking the Silence: A Cinematic Journey Through the Darkness of Domestic Abuse in "It Ends with Us"

Official Poster for “It Ends With Us” Source: IMDB ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 5 out of 5. Not every relationship is meant to last—especially those stained by abuse. Too often, victims of domestic violence remain trapped, paralyzed by financial dependence or the sheer terror of their situation. But the truth is clear: the only escape is to leave, and leave as fast as possible. It Ends with Us is a story…

[hridaymedia001]

We hope you enjoyed this video. Make sure you click the "Like" button and share this video with your friends and others who might also be interested in knowing about this video.

[otaviogilbert]

Used By Her Brother & Husband Everynight, Until She Decides It's Enough

Silent Through Years of Abuse, Until She Decides It's Enough" is a poignant narrative capturing the resilience and empowerment of a woman who endures years of abuse in silence, only to reach a breaking point where she chooses to reclaim her voice and agency. This compelling story delves into themes of survival, courage, and the transformative journey towards self-liberation and healing.

[ex-cogtfi]

February 18th, the birthday of COG-TFI’s late founder David Berg that doubles as the cult's self-appointed "birthday", has been a day of cultic rituals and forced declarations of devotion, but in 2002 it became a very different anniversary for second-generation COG-TFI survivor Whisper James ( Whisper Wind ). Instead of a day devoted to a cult that oppressed and abused the most vulnerable, it became the day that Whisper James found her freedom. In this post, she describes the many obstacles, psychological and physical, that she bravely overcame to gain freedom for herself and for her children. Despite the cult’s mechanism of forcing cult women into coerced reproduction and childrearing to keep them enslaved to the cult and its ideology, Whisper found the strength to become a Cycle-Breaker, taking herself and her children away from the cult’s clutches forever.

[pinkribboninc]

Bev is three times cancer survivor; she is also an ulcerative colitis survivor. She is an lolly to three grandchildren. She is a certified mastectomy fitted. She's very informative, she's the expert here! She is our favourite boss. You will love her just as much as we do.

[punarjanayurvedahospitals]

VSR Murthy Rectal Cancer Survival Story

V.S.R. Murthy is a retired electrical engineer. He is 79 years old and has five daughters. Also, Mr. Murthy is a very disciplined person who never skipped a single step in life. After his retirement, he shifted to Hyderabad in 2002. Shri Murthy’s mother is 101 years old. There is no doubt that he has fulfilled his responsibilities in life.

[vinishbuzz]

"Marilyn Manson Accused of Sexual, Physical, and Emotional Abuse by Former Assistant in Shocking Tell-All" #MarilynManson #SexualAbuse #MeToo #AbuseInMusicIndustry #AshleyMorganSmithline #BreakingNews #MusicNews #EntertainmentIndustry #SurvivorStory

The BuzzFeed News article titled “Marilyn Manson’s Former Assistant Accuses Him Of Sexual Abuse” highlights the story of Ashley Morgan Smithline, a former assistant of the musician. Smithline has accused Manson of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse during her time working for him. The article provides a detailed account of Smithline’s experiences, including instances of Manson tying her up and…

[churchofgladtidingsyubacity]

Meet The Fam - Sharleta Bassett Episode #2

Continue Sharleta’s journey as a tomboy and hear her story as she grows and becomes a mama and a business owner and even a Mayor! And then smile as you hear how she literally Paints the Town!

Follow how Sharleta’s heart has driven her to fight for the healing of sex trafficked children with a red-hot passion.

Help Heal Trafficked Children-Donate Now To Transform

Lives (Donate: https://churchofgladtidings.com/peace-of-heaven

Website: https://churchofgladtidings.com/

[emotionalghostown]

The undoing (TW)

When I first wrote this, I was trying to remember who I used to be—the girl I lost somewhere along the way, buried under trauma and bad choices. She was someone who used to laugh freely, who had dreams that soared beyond the walls of this city. I can still picture those late nights, holding myself together as best I could, whispering that I’d be okay. Back then, I believed in love like it was a fairytale I could write myself into. I stayed up late reading fanfictions and Wattpad stories about impossible love, love that could break boundaries and conquer anything. I played Lana del Rey, Cigarettes After Sex, Marina on repeat, as if those songs were spells to summon the girl I wanted to become.

I was eighteen, naive but full of hope. I was barely an adult, just a child with big dreams and a heart wide open to the world. I thought I could live out the stories I read, maybe save a damaged soul or impress someone untouchable. I wanted to be the heroine, blissfully unaware of the dark corners lurking in real-life romances.

And then, I met him, mere months after moving to this big sin city. The guy with the tragic past, the one everyone warned me about. I remember the rush of excitement, how his blue eyes seemed like portals to a world I wanted so badly to understand. He was my “tortured angel,” his blond hair a mess I wanted to untangle. I threw myself into him, believing I could save him. But instead, he broke me, shattering the wings I hadn’t realized were so fragile.

I fell hard, fast, and with my whole heart, and he dragged me back to reality. The painful lesson: broken romances don’t last. They leave scars that burrow deep, wounds that linger, and that take years to close. I wish I could’ve held on to the person I was before him, but survival meant leaving her behind.

I can still feel the weight of that day—the first time he raised his hand against me. I felt my heart shatter, piece by piece, as if the world I’d built up in my mind had been a lie all along. I searched for the girl I used to be, but he had chased her away, replacing dreams with nightmares. By then, I’d become a ghost of who I was, numb, broken, holding on to anything I could to stay alive.

And then, there was the day he shoved me down, and I realized I was carrying a part of him. The positive test was a lifeline, an impossible irony. I didn’t know how to survive him until I had to protect someone else. He shoved me again, knocked me down again, and with every hit, I felt pieces of myself stirring back to life. I was reborn, in a twisted way, as I lost that child. That loss sparked something in me, reigniting the fire I thought was gone forever.

It’s been a long, brutal road, and the wounds remain. I may never be who I was before him, but I’m still here, standing on my own. And that, I’ve realized, is more than enough. I’ve learned that surviving isn’t about forgetting the past; it’s about reclaiming yourself, piece by piece, from the ashes.

The song at the bottom of this entry was what he sang to me every time, and it will forever be associated with him. (The Lil Peep obsession is 100% the red flag in hindsight.)

[caesarandthecity]

The Day My Mother Tried to Kill Me

I was 10 years old. It was a day brimming with life—the sun shining brightly, the kind of day that makes a child yearn to be outside, soaking in the warmth. My friends and I were on the sidewalk, waiting our turn to rollerblade. There were six, maybe seven of us, all laughing, taking turns. I was just another kid, eager for my moment on the wheels.

And then I saw her.

My mother appeared out of nowhere, a belt gripped tightly in her hand. Her eyes were dark with fury, and the sight of her froze me in place for a split second. Then I ran. Fear and shame twisted inside me, and I bolted. I didn’t want her to catch me—not in front of my friends, not like that. But it didn’t matter how fast I ran. The belt was already striking me before we even reached home. She didn’t care that my friends were watching, didn’t care about my tears. If anything, their presence seemed to fuel her anger, as if publicly humiliating me was part of the punishment.

When we got to the house, I frantically tried to take off my rollerblades, hands shaking with desperation. But she was right behind me, relentless. There was no escape. The belt came down harder, each strike burning like fire across my skin. It wasn’t just physical pain—it was deeper, a kind of pain that made me wonder why she hated me so much. I was just a child.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The nightmare truly began when she knocked me to the floor. I hit the ground, face first, feeling the cold yellow tiles of my bedroom press against my skin. I can still feel those tiles. I would lie on them every night when I went to bed, and they would always remind me of that moment.

Then she climbed on top of me. I felt her weight crush my neck, her feet pressing down with an intent I couldn’t comprehend. Her words were like a death sentence: “I’m going to kill you.” Over and over again, she repeated it, mechanical, full of malice. It was as if I had left my body, watching the scene from above—me, small and fragile, lying helpless, and her, towering over me, intent on ending my life.

I remember the cold floor. Her weight. My breath slipping away. In that moment, I truly believed this was the end. I believed my mother was going to kill me. And worse, I believed I deserved it.

Years have passed, but the memory of that day never left me. The bruises faded, the physical pain dulled with time, but the emotional scars never healed. I spent years trying to understand why. Why she hated me so much. Why she felt the need to destroy me. For so long, I asked myself what I had done wrong. What was it about me that made her so angry? Was I really that bad?

It took me years to realize the truth: the problem wasn’t me. It was never me. My mother wasn’t my mother. She was someone deeply broken, consumed by her own wounds, her own rage, her own unresolved trauma. But understanding that didn’t make the pain disappear. It didn’t make the fear, the hurt, or the betrayal any easier to carry.

I still carry this trauma, like an open wound that refuses to heal. Some days, the bleeding stops. I can almost forget. But then something happens—a sound, a smell, a fleeting memory—and the wound tears open again. The pain of being treated as less than nothing, of being suffocated by the person who was supposed to protect me, echoes in the deepest part of me.

There’s no cure for this kind of pain. No amount of time or understanding can erase it. I’ve simply learned to live with it. I’ve learned to live with the knowledge that I deserved so much more than I got, and that none of it was my fault.

And yet, despite everything, the ghosts of that day still haunt me. They whisper whenever I witness family dynamics that remind me of the home where I grew up. They remind me of the love I was denied, the safety I never had.

But I found something else—a mother I never knew I had. Gaia, the Earth, took me in. She showed me what it means to be cared for, to be nurtured. Where my biological mother failed, Gaia stepped in, cradling me in her embrace. The role of a mother that I was denied in life, I found in her. She taught me that I am worthy of love, that I am not broken, that none of it was ever my fault.

That knowledge, that connection with the Earth, keeps me going. It holds me through the darkest nights, when the memories threaten to swallow me whole. Because I know that I am not alone. I am held by something greater—something that sees me, loves me, and will never, ever try to suffocate me.

For that, I am eternally grateful.

[sireesha91333]

కిడ్నీ క్యాన్సర్ ని జయించిన యోధుడు షామిర్ | Kidney Cancer Survivor Story | Punarjan Ayurveda

In this inspiring video, join Nerella Buchaiah as he shares his incredible journey of surviving pancreatic cancer. Discover his remarkable story of resilience, hope, and determination to overcome this formidable disease. Nerella will take you through his battle, from the initial diagnosis to the revolutionary treatment he received at Punarjan Ayurveda Hospital. Through this emotional and empowering tale, you will gain insights into the challenges faced by pancreatic cancer patients and witness the indomitable spirit of a survivor. Don't miss this gripping account that spreads awareness, offers support, and offers a glimmer of hope to those fighting pancreatic cancer. https://www.youtube.com/@PunarjanAyurveda?sub_confirmation=1 Subscribe to our channel for more compelling survivor stories and valuable information on the advances in pancreatic cancer treatments. Website: www.punarjanayurveda.com

[wesurviveabuse]

Autonomy, Dating, and Partner Selection is Our Birthright" explores the powerful intersection of history and empowerment. In this episode of We Survive Abuse, host Tonya GJ Prince delves into the fight for autonomy from enslaved Black Americans resisting control and challenging the so-called medical diagnosis of 'drapetomania,' to the ways women today can reclaim their power in dating and relationships.  Drawing wisdom from Black women like Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, and Audre Lorde, this episode is a rallying cry for self-determination, reminding women that choosing themselves is revolutionary. Tune in for a blend of history, encouragement, and actionable insights on reclaiming your birthright to autonomy.

[kathleenjonesbooks]

Rebuilding trust after abuse is a challenging and uncertain journey, one that extends far beyond mending relationships—it involves reshaping an entire perspective on life. Abuse leaves profound scars, transforming how victims view both themselves and others. In Dry Your Eyes, Girl, Christina Balzani shares her deeply moving story of healing from…