On July 4, 29 years ago, I left an abusive relationship. I was 18.
I can still recall in vivid detail every moment of that day when I packed up my son, our few things, and drove away. It was the start of something healthy and beautiful, just my boy and me.
A fresh start in a new city.
It wasn’t easy, but I was determined. Our story could’ve ended any number of ways had I stayed. I count myself lucky for having the ability to trust my instincts and leave.
My son’s father is now in federal prison serving a life sentence.
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I knew I had to leave. That much was clear.
More than anything, I refused to raise my baby in a home where his dad would get drunk or high and angry and put his hands on me. I didn’t deserve it, and our son definitely deserved better. I had spent the previous 17 years on the receiving end of another angry drunk—my mother—and enough was enough.
I was not about to let that cycle continue.
I gave an ultimatum. I told him he needed to get clean and start being a better partner to me and a better dad to his son by his first birthday or we were leaving.
He didn’t believe me, but I meant every word. After surviving an abusive childhood, my instincts were perfectly-honed and battle ready.
Our infant son was all that mattered. Being his mom was my greatest gift, and I was not about to let anyone—even his own father—hurt him with his reckless, unhealthy, and violent behavior. My heart knew we needed a fresh start somewhere, my boy and me. And that was all I cared about.
The using substances, the yelling, and the domestic violence didn’t stop. And I knew what I had to do.
A few days after his first birthday, I loaded my son in his bright yellow footie pajamas, his favorite blanket, and a few of my things into the car and drove away.
I was unsure of exactly what was ahead for us in a new city, but two things were evident:
I could finally breathe again. And we were safe.