Outside Voice
Part Four- Are We There Yet? - Story 10.0
The steady rhythm of my SUV’s tires on the open road reflected my personal path for freedom, each mile reviving my independence after years of instability. My new ride was more than transportation; it was my first real step toward a life free of violence. The journey to safety was long, and so was the path to writing this story.
My heart, once a bright, shiny red tomato, was crushed into ugly chunks, bitter, and coarse with grime. It’s a big mess, and it will take me a long time to clean it all up. I was more than sad. I was empty. I would even daydream, jealous of the girl I was in July of 2024, openly weeping and shaking in her girlfriend’s apartment. That girl hadn’t seen half of the damage yet. That girl was so utterly full of life; her cup of life itself was so close to the brim that if someone shook the glass, she would flow freely. But since that time, I had been shaken and spilled a hundred times, and somewhere along the way, my glass grew dry. So I stayed, shaking, cold, and hollow. I really missed those innocent, easy tears, where I just needed a good cry. Sometimes I feel so far away from reality that the only next road sign is just normal, boring pain, tears, binge-watching TV, and eating too much ice cream. The road ahead I’m on has more miles than I can see or count.
In an effort to begin to rebuild myself, I have been engaging in as much self-healing as I can. Therapy has naturally been a constant. I have indulged my sense of adventure, seeking joy in intense roller coasters and paragliding. I participate in self-care, including trauma-specific massages, meditation, online sessions with a shaman, and most importantly, I write.
My first story, the journal entry I called “Sand Castle,” unknowingly became the cornerstone of what would grow into my collection, “Inside Voice.” At the time, I never imagined I’d write more essays, let alone nineteen more, each one exposing the layers of my experience with domestic violence. Back then, I couldn’t even say those words about myself. But a single question kept surfacing in my writing, weaving all the stories together: Where am I going with this? The answer is I don’t know, but I’m learning to be ok with that. That’s the only place I’m going at this point. Leaving an abusive partner isn’t an ending. It isn’t a conclusion. It’s a beginning. It’s the beginning of the new me, and I still have to meet her.
Throughout my relationship, I poured my secrets into journal stories. They became my lifeline, a means to process truths I couldn’t yet say out loud. As my world grew smaller, I latched to these stories, finding in them the honesty I was forbidden to speak. By February 2025, I started drafting more and more journals. I wasn’t ready to leave Oliver, but I knew that without a plan, my life was at risk. Even speaking out felt dangerous. My fears were justified, and keeping my inside voice hidden kept me alive. Now, from the safety of freedom, I am grateful for the courage and foresight of my past self.
Freedom has been a breath of fresh air, but I am still wandering through the forest of recovery. The road ahead is long, and PTSD is just one of the shadows I have to confront.
This round of PTSD has been brutal. At times, it feels like hell itself is twisting through my spine, fire-breathing demons gnawing at my core. The pain is invisible but relentless, burning me from the inside out. Haunting memories, sudden jolts of terror, and the constant ache of self-criticism color my days in smoky gray, making every moment a battle.
After everything that had happened to me over the summer, I was a fragile being. Large crowds? Overwhelming. I’d get tired—no, exhausted—within minutes. Social energy vanished quick. Each environment is a minefield of triggers. Crowds, stores, social outings? I avoided them all. Until October 3rd, 2025, when I decided to take myself out.
October 3rd, 2025, was the release date of Taylor Swift’s Twelfth album, The Life Of A Showgirl, and I bought myself a ticket to see the in-theater release of the making of “The Fate of Ophelia” music video. I was something of a rain cloud of a human being, unable to let go of my own Tortured Poets Department era, but I loved watching Taylor’s success and her newfound happiness. So on October 3rd, 2025, I chose to at least try to join her in moving on to the next era. I was indeed an eldest daughter, with a love for Elizabeth Taylor. Maybe this night was meant to be.
I drove out to the Redmond theater to avoid the larger crowds drawn to Seattle. I didn’t have the energy to fashion a cool costume, but I did wear bright red lipstick, my black leather pants, and a white t-shirt that read “A LOT GOING ON AT THE MOMENT”. When I stepped out of the car, I felt immediately intimidated and inadequate in the face of the bright-faced women and girls adorned in intricate costumes and detailed accessories.
What was I doing here alone? I picked a t-shirt for a costume? I wasn’t even as excited as I felt I should be. I felt guilty. Everything that could possibly make me happy was right in front of me, and I wasn’t feeling the right things. I felt like I didn’t deserve to be there, so I just stood there for a few minutes vaping my nicotine and contemplating whether or not I should just turn around and go home.
And just when I felt the car keys tugging at my palm inside my leather jacket pocket, I nearly jumped out of my skin as I was tapped on the shoulder. “Wha…oh…um hi,” I replied. It was a stranger, a young girl. She couldn’t have been more than 14 years old. She had brunette hair, sprayed with sparkling glitter and braided with butterfly clips. She wore a stunning, oversized, fluorescent sequin jacket and was holding a little bag in her hands. She was just unapologetically beaming at me. I was dumbfounded. What did she want?
“Hi! Happy October 3rd! I LOVE your Red era costume! Here! Do you want an opalite?!” She chimed as she gleefully wrenched a tiny heart-shaped opalite gem out of the bag and presented it to me. This young, sweet girl was overflowing with the joy and sunshine I yearned for so deeply and so desperately. As she handed me the opalite, her eyes sparkled with the excitement of someone who was deeply connected with Taylor’s lyrics, perhaps reliving a favorite line from ‘Fearless’ or reminiscing about the time she and her friends attended a concert. It dawned on me in that moment that her happiness and the happiness of all those other Swifties in the parking lot were never excluding me. They were always inviting me. It was only my own mind that had criticized my costume and tried to get me to go home. In that moment, I saw the utter beauty of a world where women and even young girls like this, who overflow with happiness, know how to reach out a hand and offer their sister an opalite.
I wanted to be the kind of woman who ran to these spaces, not from them. As my heart melted and I tried my best not to cry behind my oversized sunglasses, I smiled and whispered, “Yeah, I want an opalite. Thank you”.
Then I took the tiny stone from the angelic young woman, and she trotted off blissfully skipping and singing, “but my mama told me it’s alright. You were dancing through the lightning strikes”. I clutched the opalite in my palm and stuffed it in my jacket pocket, walked into that theater, and had the best time. I used to keep a glass shard in my jacket pocket to remind me of the terror of the worst night of my life. Now, instead, I carry a little gem that a kind young woman offered me in a dark moment, to remind me of the divine power and beauty of a world where women support women. It turned out that night was meant to be.
Social engagements were only the start of my healing journey. Therapy was a whole new ballgame with this kind of trauma. EMDR is by no means any sort of joke. By Thanksgiving week of 2025, after a long, detailed history intake that spanned from July to November, it was time to start talking about light therapy. This precipitated the first time since the night of January 2nd, when Oliver had intentionally destroyed my Christmas Tree in front of me because he knew how badly it would hurt me, and I blacked out in fear, that I once again encountered Christmas trees.
The sight of pine needles on the floor of my elevator sent shivers down my spine, choking me in the memories of the fear I had for my own life, that terrifying night. I attempted to watch “The Grinch” on the night of December 2nd, 2025, and I was hiding under my covers like it was “Hereditary”, wincing and shaking in uncontrollable fear every time the Grinch defiled a tree from Whoville. That night, I had my first panic attack. My heart siezed in piercing needles, my breath warm, and my skin ice to the touch. My stomach churned, and cold sweat beaded against my rashy, pulsating chest. I couldn’t ground myself. It only took twenty minutes to subside, but it was one of the worst pains I have ever felt. I knew it was a panic attack, but I could see why some people seek medical attention, confusing the episode with a heart attack. It was exhausting, and it took my body a full week to recover its full strength afterwards.
The following Wednesday, I was supposed to present the fiscal calendar at our staff meeting. My director reviewed the details for the upcoming Holiday Office Party, and then it was my turn. Suddenly, I froze—words vanished, and I felt myself disappear, paralyzed in front of everyone. Their eyes on me only tightened the grip of panic binding my words. My boss quickly stepped in, took over, and explained I was just waiting for him to pull up the calendar. Some colleagues exchanged confused looks. I finished the meeting, sent my boss a quick thank you, then slipped away to hide under my desk until I could steady my breath.
This was especially hard because it was the Holiday season. Christmas trees were everywhere, transforming what was once my favorite time of year into a minefield of painful reminders. I used to love Christmas more than anything—more than Star Wars, more than money, more than my job. It was a season of love, community, and celebration with friends, family, and even strangers. I cherished the decorations, the feasts, and the warmth reflected in everyone around me.
Among all the holiday wonders, I loved the Christmas trees most of all. I used to attend the National Christmas tree ceremony the day after Thanksgiving every year I lived in DC. The experience was magical: sipping overpriced hot chocolate from my freezing, bony hands while Jack Frost nipped at my nose, marveling at the spectacular sight of trees from every state, each one telling celebratory stories of human life in its branches. Now, the holiday spirit—once a chapel of joy in my heart—felt like rubble, a crippling twist of fate from the trauma I had survived.
“Ok...” Sasha, my new therapist, began that Friday afternoon in early December. “We have done enough history, so I think it’s time to start the EMDR. We can’t just eliminate all the Christmas trees out there. You are going to have to encounter them, so if you’re ok with it, Scarlett, I think we need to go back to that night when you blacked out, when Oliver destroyed your tree. You think we can do that?” Sasha paused briefly, inviting a moment of shared grounding before proceeding. “Take a breath, and just notice your feet on the floor as we start this process,” she added. “Feel the support of the chair beneath you, and the steady rhythm of your breath, anchoring you in the present moment.”
I nodded through the screen. It was going to be ok. It was just a memory. A memory couldn’t kill me, and I didn’t want to have another panic attack.
“Alright.” Sasha nodded. She set up a moving dot that would bounce back and forth across the screen. I was to carefully focus on the navy blue dot when instructed to do so. Sasha would ask me questions, and I could pause with my eyes closed to answer them. I needed to follow my thoughts as I ruminated on my response in coincidence with the dot across the screen. When Sasha told me to stop, she would ask me questions to figure out where my thoughts were at that moment. I didn’t need to tell her how I got there, just where I was at the moment.
“Ok,” She whispered, as my eyes clung to the easy-flowing blue dot against the grey screen. “I need you to take me back to that night, the moment before you blacked out, when he destroyed the tree. What do you remember? What happened around that moment? Do you remember what you felt in your body? Do you remember what you were thinking? Take a moment to think before you respond. You can close your eyes now.”
I clenched my eyes shut and tried to remember. My brain started to tighten, and I could feel pressure pulsating through my ears. My chest clenching into my spine, I could feel my bare legs shivering in the cold underneath my night gown. My face was puffy with a violent red shared by the bulging veins in my eyes at the moment his hands cupped my face as he planted himself between me and the door of our bedroom. “I..I was afraid.” I whispered, “He had my face in his hands, and I thought he was going to spit into my eyes. I wasn’t afraid of the pain or the disgust. I was afraid of the hate. He had already shown me so much hate, and for him to spit in my face, the hate would have crushed me. I couldn’t take any more sorrow. I just couldn’t.”
“Ok. How is your body. What do you feel right now?” Sasha pressed on.
“I... I...feel tightness in my head. My limbs feel numb. My chest is heavy, but my heart is racing.”
“Are you ok to keep going?”
“Yes. It’ll pass. Keep going,” I assured her.
“Ok. Scarlett, I need you to open your eyes and watch the dot for a little while. Just stay with that moment, and let your mind go wherever it needs to. Don’t try to judge it. Just watch your thoughts, and let them be. Ok?”
I nodded, opened my eyes, and watched the dot move. I couldn’t recall if he cupped my face before or after the tree. Even as he loomed over me, I sensed that being spat on was only a shadow of the real danger. When he turned and did something so degrading beside the tree, fear and relief collided inside me, leaving me unsettled. My mind latched onto the destruction, seeing it as a symbol of his hatred, and my relief felt twisted—like I was grateful only because something even worse hadn’t happened. It was a haunting paradox: relief itself became a warning sign.
“Ok, stop.” The dot slowed to a halt, and Sasha guided me onward. “Close your eyes again. Where are you right now, Scarlett?”
“I um..my brain is foggy. I keep getting blots of grey. It’s like the thoughts just start and stop. I can’t feel my face anymore, and my tongue feels light. The moment after he destroyed the tree. Right up until that moment, my worst fear was getting too much hate, and in a second, my worst fear became, What if he pulls out a gun?” I took a deep breath in and held it. “I felt so stupid. I felt so much relief when he made me watch him urinate on the parts of the tree. I wasn’t going to die in that moment. I was so relieved, so terrified, and so broken all in one sweeping movement. It’s too much emotion to understand. I don’t understand it. I don’t know if I am truly capable of ever understanding it.”
“That’s ok, Scarlett. Stay with that. Open your eyes. Follow the dot. Try to think of why you believe that about yourself. Where does that come from? What were you thinking in that moment?” Sasha continued softly.
I watched the dot move across the screen as I let my thoughts drift. I was incapable of understanding because I was exhausted, aware that I was only attracted to broken men, a stronghold over every part of my being, and because of how I was even built. To my core, I knew I didn’t really know anything different.
My mother was like me. Her mother, too. This pattern was passed down, lesson by lesson, until it became part of me. I felt too exhausted and broken to change, barely able to stand as he desecrated what was left of my tree. I felt trapped, destined to repeat this cycle forever. The only escape was to shatter generations of silence—a legacy I never wanted to claim.
I was afraid that the flames of resentment beneath the barrier would burn me to shreds. I feared the rage I had been holding for myself, for my mother, my grandmother, and who knows how many ancestors before me. I couldn’t possibly withstand the flames in my current state, far too small a being to withstand such a great force.
“Ok, Scarlett.” The dot slowed. “Where are you now?”
“I’m angry. I can’t overcome the need to please him. It’s how my mom was. It’s how my grandmother was, and I don’t know how many women were like her before her. They just passed the torch to me. Is that all I’m going to be capable of? I can’t become a mom if I stay this way. But I’m afraid the only way to break free is to break this cycle that is just so much bigger than I am. I’m afraid it will crush me. It...I don’t know. This next part is going to sound weird and trippy...”
“That’s ok, Scarlett. Just tell me. It’s whatever it is for you. There’s no need to judge. Just watch.” Sasha assured me.
“I’m seeing a huge set of flames that are like all the resentments all my female ancestors felt for their abusive partners. And if I don’t lift the gates, those same flames are going to burn in me, and I’ll hurt my daughters, too. But I’m terrified to lift the gates. I have no idea how much fire is underneath, and I’m sure it will burn me to death.”
“Ok, Scarlett. Open your eyes and stay with that. What are you going to do with the gate?”
I opened my eyes and drifted away with the floating dot. My whole body was tense. My skin pricked with cold, sharp anxiety, but I took a deep breath. The memories couldn’t kill me, but not knowing their secrets could. I went to the gate, and I freed the terrifying blaze beneath.
The fire surged up around me, and it was wild and wicked, but the flames did not burn. Instead, they opened my lungs in an invigorating whoosh, freeing me from the constriction I hadn’t realized was gripping me. It was as if I hadn’t taken a full breath in for centuries, but now the air flowed freely, revitalizing my whole being. I felt the air rise into the grey recesses of my mind, like a blast of spring flowers across a desolate desert, for just a moment. A beautiful mirage of peace. Then the flames danced into shades of baby blue and rose gold, as the silhouette of a woman, too far out of reach, took slow steps towards me.
“Ok, Scarlett. Take a deep breath in and out. Then tell me what’s happening right now.”
I obeyed and reported. “I opened the grates. The flames engulfed me, but they didn’t burn. They actually felt good, like the first breath I’d taken in over a thousand years or something. Then there was a dark shadow of a woman out of reach, and the flames turned into these pretty blues and pinks instead of the fierce orange.”
“Ok, good. Now tell me, what does that mean in terms of that night? What did that memory mean to you when he was peeing on your Christmas tree?”
I wandered back into the haunted corridors of my mind. In that moment, as he desecrated my tree, I realized just how grave the danger was. If I stayed, he would eventually kill me—one way or another. I was terrified, but I knew I had to fight for my life, to unleash the flames inside me and find a way out. I just didn’t know how, and I feared I was too fragile to survive any more pain. This was David versus Goliath, but there was no fairy tale ending in sight.
I reported this to Sasha again and again, until we reached a point where she taught me a compartmentalization tool to safely store the memories around my broken Christmas tree so I could function in the world while also maintaining their importance in my story.
“I want you to imagine a safe. It can be anything you want, but I want it to be your own. I want you to think for a moment and tell me what it looks like, how it feels to lock the safe, and what it means to you to store the memories of that night securely inside. Why do you trust this safe?”
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine. My mind went on its trippy excursion and returned from the outer galaxies, inside, with a classic-looking television set, padded in bright, sparkling vinyl leather, flickering black-and-white scenes, and large silver dials to control it. I knelt slowly in front of the television set. It reminded me of Dorothy’s ruby slippers in The Wizard of Oz, one of my favorite childhood movies. It also evoked the giggling memories of myself as a young girl scarfing down Ledo’s pizza on glittering red vinyl seats. I loved Ledo’s pizza so much as a child that I even used to ask Santa for that specific pie for Christmas morning every year. As I knelt down so close to the screen that my nose was a breath away from kissing the thick glass, I pressed my fingertips to the center of my heart.
I carefully pulled the memories from my chest, as if unraveling delicate lace. They shimmered like a magical reel from a beloved TV show, and I pressed them gently onto the screen of my red vinyl TV safe. Now, they were just TV shows—no matter how raw or terrifying, they were separate from me. I could watch them with empathy, piecing together the puzzle at my own pace. They were safe there, and I could return to them whenever I was ready, taking all the time I needed to understand.
It was the most difficult Christmas season of my life. Jingle bells that once sang jolly tales of a snowman’s redemption struck fear in my heart, echoing the shattered glass striking my bedroom door on that terrible night. The merry tales told by carolers throughout the neighborhood, once inspiring joy and warmth, sounded like the screams of my inner torment. And, the stunning trees holding the sacred stories of family tradition safely encapsulated by every silver, gold, and ruby ornament had been pulverized into sharp jagged glass all over the scattered floor of my brain. I don’t know how to properly explain the hell, but my little vinyl TV set did indeed help me survive the season.
Alongside a mountain of therapy, art, and writing have been my lifelines—a sacred ritual for processing my grief. Finishing the pieces of Inside Voice, recording them, and creating art around them was hard, but each effort added to the reel in my tiny TV. I built a story I could share, take pride in, and learn from. I created a world meant to inspire empathy for anyone struggling, primarily myself, if I am honest. My trauma found a home in its own little universe, becoming something I could approach without shame or fear. It was safe from me, and I was safe from it, as it played out stories I could finally learn from.
I invite you all to explore your unique voices, whether through journaling, art, or storytelling. These outlets can be powerful tools for healing, providing a safe space to express and understand your experiences. By finding your own voice, you can create a narrative that helps you navigate the complexities of your journey, just as I have. You are not alone in your pain, and sharing your story can be a step toward healing and self-discovery. Whatever outlet you choose, make yourself the main character in the story you get to write.
Next, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all for your readership. I wrote this piece starting in July of 2024, when I wrote “Sandcastle”. It was just a journaling exercise for myself, which I had only shared with some close friends at the time. I never imagined it would be the first seed to grow into my salvation. As Oliver and my relationship progressed, I kept writing these journal pieces, and eventually I tied them to the true story of our relationship. In March of 2025, I put the pieces together in an outline, which I titled “Inside Voice”. I began writing short stories to explain the true events of what I experienced, and I began evolving the journals to capture the hellish reality I felt. I couldn’t speak, but the writing fulfilled my desperate cries to be heard deep inside.
These stories evolved because, unfortunately, March 2025 wasn’t the end. Women are 70% more likely to be killed by an abusive partner after the relationship has ended. I almost became one of those statistics in July, so several stories and journals were added to the last section. Back then, I was so isolated that my writing became my only sanctuary—a place where I could be truly myself, even if no one was listening. Through sharing, I discovered I wasn’t alone. So many survivors have felt the same isolation, but by speaking out, we build a community of strength and understanding. Together, we can break the silence. The hope that I could finish these stories as a free, heard, and believed woman was everything to me, and I’m glad I have been fortunate enough to see it through. Every reader has been part of my rescue, and I am endlessly grateful. I hope to write to you again, but next time, with my real name—because this isn’t my only story, and it doesn’t define me. Goodbye for now. It’s time for me to find my outside voice.
