A year and a half ago after relocating back to my hometown, I bought a car. I found a vehicle in March of 2025; it had low miles and a good owner. I used the last of my savings to purchase the vehicle. It was convenient and reasonable. It was exactly what I needed to get back on my feet.
Two weeks later, I had to use that same vehicle to escape my ex. On April 8th at 10:30 p.m., I was leaving for my shift at work. I walked into my garage, got inside my vehicle, and pressed the garage door opener. I didn’t know what was waiting for me on the other side. There was a vehicle I didn’t recognize blocking me in. A person got out with a cap, dressed in all black, and entered my garage.
Even in the dark, I realized it was my ex. I pleaded with him to not do this; to walk away and leave. He decided otherwise. All the things he said before came rushing back to me. All the threats and all the warnings. I knew what he was thinking, and I knew that I was alone. He tried picking up several different items to try and get me out of the car, growing more frustrated with each attempt. He finally succeeded in busting out the driver-side window using a wooden plank. He reached into the vehicle to try and get the keys and grabbed me. I knew his mind was made up, so I had to make up mine. It was either him or me. I pressed on the gas and floored it, hitting the car that he used to block me inside my garage.
That night, I used my car to fight for my life. I was fortunate enough to stay focused, think fast, and go for help. There was a pursuit. He chased me down and kept trying to run me off the road. I was willing to die rather than give him the satisfaction of succeeding with whatever plan he had that night. I fought for my life. No matter how many hits my car took, I just kept asking God to not give up on me, to not allow him to take me away from my babies. The last hit my car took, I spun out, and his car stalled. I knew I had seconds to get away. I pressed on the gas again, hoping the car would just get me somewhere before his engine turned over. Once I found my phone on the passenger side floor, I called 911 for a second time. I drove off and saw an abandoned garage, backed in, then I turned the car and lights off and hid. Nothing about what I was feeling in that moment felt brave. I was whispering on the phone with dispatch, and I waited until I heard the sirens and lights to leave the garage.
In what felt like forever, it took less than 30 minutes for my vehicle to be totaled. It wasn’t until the police came and took my statement and pictures that I saw what my car looked like. They asked whose blood was on me. I didn’t even realize my hand was cut open from all the glass. I just stared at my car, wondering what now? How am I going to get the kids to school? I was supposed to grab groceries in the morning, and now I have to call into work. None of my thoughts were about me. I almost died, and all I could think about was how am I going to fix this? Isn’t it crazy that no matter what you’re going through, you still have to parent and problem-solve? The victim advocates reached out right away to check on me and tell me about the resources they have; they even brought up victim compensation. What they didn’t say is how it doesn’t cover personal property. I just recently received a letter stating how my vehicle won’t be compensated. The last six months, I spent money on Ubers, Lyfts, and rentals with the idea that I would be reimbursed. I thought I was going to get help. I’m realizing I can’t do this alone. As unfair as it is, I know there are worse things to experience. The only thing I lost that day was a car. I still get to come home to my children, but getting ahead is a lot harder when you don’t have a way to get there. I’m asking for help to have one less thing to figure out and be able to focus on our healing, not just surviving. For a while now, I tried to give this the utmost consideration. Every move I have made in the past year and a half has been at the consideration of others. No matter how uncomfortable, depleted, and anxious it made me feel, I still chose to make things easier for everyone else but me.
One person that I never thought to consider was myself. I think the hardest part about telling the truth is the feeling of being exposed. People knowing about something you tried so hard to keep a secret. In domestic abuse, the victim often feels shame, embarrassment, and intimidation; brave is hardly ever the word that is used.