An Unbreakable and Uplifting Warrior's Story: Hope

It has taken years for me to write my story—a story of trauma and abuse. I stumbled across this site on Facebook and felt compelled to read more. "Domestic abuse survivors, we want to hear your story of survival," I thought. This was the start of my writing journey. So here we are: Are you ready to join me on a journey of hope?

I believe I was given my name for a reason. In moments when I felt unable to move or see the light ahead, I held onto the simple word "Hope."

To understand my journey, I need to take you back to the beginning—before I was even conceived. My mother, deep down, was a good person who wanted nothing more than to be loved and accepted for who she was. She spent her entire life fighting for her own identity. Unfortunately, she became another woman beaten and broken, destined to die without ever knowing her true strength and worth.

Her father was an alcoholic who abused her mother. Although I never met him, she often described him as a narcissist. Later, she married my father, and they had two sons and me. My father was involved in a motorcycle club, and my mother frequently told me he was abusive; he would come home drunk, covered in hickeys, and create chaos. He would disappear for days at a time.

I don't remember much of my childhood or my father being around. When I was around five, my stepfather came into our lives. I considered him the devil in human form. I only became aware of his issues much later; until then, I simply had to endure them. He would yell, scream, punch things, and throw objects. His presence was intimidating. If his dinner wasn't hot enough, he would throw it across the room at our mother. He would hit her and break things, deriving pleasure from tormenting us kids.

The trauma from his actions scarred me for life. He would watch us in the shower, timing our water usage, and he removed the locks from the doors so we couldn't secure our privacy. He would humiliate us in front of anyone he could. He even took us to school with his pants pulled up to his armpits, laughing and skipping. We were never allowed to lead a normal childhood.

Every lunchtime, we had to run home, a fast walk that normally took 40 minutes each way, to return within an hour. If we stayed at school, he would use a rolling pin to flatten our bread until it was paper-thin, make us eat things we hated. For punishment, we had to write lines—39 words squeezed into a single line of A4 paper. We had to fill six pages, front and back, without the option of writing in columns; otherwise, we would have to start over. We were not permitted to move until we finished all the pages.

Then there were the beatings with a belt that had brass buckles. He would follow us around, slapping it together, taunting us. Because of the unstable home and the lack security and safety, I struggled with bedwetting, which suited him just fine. He would fold a queen-size sheet into a nappy, making me lie on the floor while he placed it on me, touching my genitals as if to prevent any accidents. This continued until the day I left home, 14 years old. He even forced me to walk up and down the hallway in a black garbage bag while he berated me.

I remember one time my mother said I could have a deeper bath than usual. He violently fought her for the plug, and she ended up being thrown into the door frame, breaking her back. When I was 13, my stepfather revealed that I wasn’t wanted and that my biological father had raped my mother one night after their divorce, following an assault. My heart broke when I looked at my mother, who confirmed, “It’s true.” 

Much of this abuse was documented. However, my nana's husband was a senior sergeant in the police, and my mother’s church had two elders who were also part of the police force. I believe these abuse cases were covered up, and years later, my nana confirmed this.

So much more abuse happened to my mother and me, and I will be writing about it in my book. The last incident I reported involved my stepfather, which I shared with my supervisor at the time. She, in turn, contacted the police. I went to the Nelson police station to give my statement, where they took photos and began investigating further. My mother approached me in distress, asking how could you do this to me? Why would you? When we leave home, I will have nothing. You are ruining my life.” I felt so guilty that I retracted my statement and told the police I had lied. Later that day, I jumped out of the bathroom window of my childhood home and ran to a friend's house. My mother and stepfather then told me that my belongings were on the doorstep. My friend's mother ended up collecting my bag, but inside it were every single photo of me, ripped into tiny pieces.

Over the years, my mother would criticize me, telling me I was only ever good enough to lie on my back, that my lips were too small, my knees too knocked, and my nose was of an odd shape. I will address these issues in more detail in my book. By the age of 14, I felt broken, hurt, and alone. This is when I began self-harming. I remember one time I cut my legs so badly that they would split open every time I walked. 

I eventually met a boy who made me feel loved and desired. However, I was mistaken; he would abuse, lie to, and cheat on me. He eventually choose someone else, I moved into a place of my own. One morning, I woke up naked with a man I didn’t know. I felt sick and knew exactly what had happened. I called my brother, but by the time he arrived, the man had run down the back hill and flown to Australia the next day I believe he still lives there 

My ex-partner somehow used all the right words to lure me back in. He convinced me that the best move was to move to Oamaru for a fresh start, so two days later, I hopped in his panel van, which was full of his belongings. Halfway to Oamaru, we were pulled over and i received my first criminal offense for receiving stolen property; everything in that car was stolen. After we arrived in Oamaru, I got a job as a waitress, while I wasn't sure what my partner did. We constantly argued and fought.

One day, I found him sleeping with one of my friends. In a fit of anger, I took a chair to his white panel van. I felt so betrayed and upset, but later that night, I woke to his mother holding a butchers knife to my throat, threatening to kill me if I didn't stay away from her son. Two days later, I found myself on my way to a gang pad in the North Island. I won’t go into detail here, as I will explain more in my book, but what followed was a story of attempted kidnapping,rape, drug addiction, prostitution, and severe mental, physical, and sexual abuse. With my mother’s words echoing in my psyche, I felt like I was exactly where I deserved to be.

Eventually, I escaped this life and returned to my hometown. I worked as a waitress and began an affair with my boss, who claimed to be single and going through a divorce. It later came to light that he was very much married. When I told him I was pregnant, he called me a slut the the baby wasn't his. Once I decided to keep my child, I immediately gave up my meth addiction. I later met a man who would become the father of my child, and together we had three more children.

During our time together, I was deeply broken and in and out of the mental health system, attempting suicide multiple times, still being harassed and threatened by my stepfather, while my mother played gameswith my emotions. She would berate me for being "fat" after giving birth, saying I wasn't as lucky as other women. After a split, I became promiscuous again, thinking that was my only purpose in life. Following this, I fell into drugs and prostitution. I later met someone who raped me anally. After that incident, I attempted suicide again and was found just in time. I was assigned to a woman named Dawn, who would visit me daily while I was on suicide watch. She became a pivotal point in my recovery.

I eventually moved to a farm, where I met another man. He was sweet but also broken, and we started our relationship with a meth habit. We decided to move to Whakatane for a fresh start and got married. Initially, things were good; we were dairy farming. However, two broken people trying to build a relationship created a toxic environment, and I eventually decided to walk away.

I moved into town again and met yet another man, whom I thought was “the one.” Despite his dishonesty and inability to understand me, I made excuses for his behavior because he introduced me to experiences I had never had before. We went camping and hunting, and I began hanging out with friends. I started my own business and felt like I was getting ahead. My mental health began to improve as I started working with a counselor to understand my self. I was diagnosed with complex PTSD, borderline personality disorder, anxiety, body dysmorphia, and chronic depression. I worked hard on my mental health, seeking to find my worth and value.

However, there were times I called my partner out for inappropriate behavior, such as commenting on other girls' posts and flirting, which I felt crossed the line. He would tell me I wasn't normal and that I was crazy. My drinking escalated as I tried to cope with each day. We fought often, and there were occasions when he would push me to the floor, standing over me and saying that this is what I wanted him to do. After one argument, he held me up by my throat off the ground.

After witnessing his behavior repeatedly, combined with similar actions from others around me that went against my morals, I had a meltdown. I became so drunk that I attempted to attack a woman who kept flirting with my partner, as well as the partners of other women. I was stopped before I could tackle her, which resulted in snapping every ligament in my knee. That was the last time I was with that partner. 

I understand I was difficult to deal with, but what hurt me more was that I had allowed him access to my sensitive claims assessment; he knew more about me than anyone, and instead, he used that knowledge against me.

I moved to a new place, but things went from bad to worse. My world was closing in, and I felt like I was spiraling out of control. I lost my business, ended up in court, crashed my bike, and broke my collarbone. I then underwent surgery on my knee and collarbone. To start fresh, I moved to Tauranga, hoping for a change. Unfortunately, my addiction to meth resurfaced, and I felt utterly broken. Tragedy struck when my little brother committed suicide, prompting me to return to Nelson to be with my family whom i hadbt seen in iver 12 years I should mention that my mother is still with my stepfather, despite his repeated attempts to kill her, including the last incident where he threw her out of a two-story bedroom window, narrowly missing her jugular. To this day, I am seen as the “witch” in my mother's eyes, the liar who orchestrated everything that has ever gone wrong in our family. I choose to stay away and protect my children from their behavior 

After being single for two years, I had time to reflect on who I wanted to be. I spent that time focusing on myself until I reconnected with my first love—the boy I admired from afar when I was 15, 16, and 17. He had been on my mind all those years, and my heart skipped a beat when we began hanging out again. He came to stay, and we would smoke together. On Labor Day, I went for a ride on my bike, leaving Rotorua, only to wake up three days later in a hospital after being in a coma. My ribs, sternum, and lower back were fractured, my lung had collapsed, and my liver and kidney were lacerated. There were deep burns on my right leg, and my spleen was removed in pieces. My femur was shattered in five places, but fortunately, my knee was untouched. I needed five units of blood to survive. I still don't remember the accident; I think my brain knew I couldn't handle any more trauma. The accident happened when I hit a pothole, causing my bike to tank-slap. I regained control, only to be highsided into the metal wires in the middle of the road as my grip slipped. Just two weeks earlier, my brother had been messing around, changing my handlebars; he would later betray me and others, leaving for overseas.

I took this as a lesson. It felt like the universe was forcing me to look within. The past year has been the hardest of my life—healing not only my body but also the lingering wounds in my mind. The love of my life stood by me, holding my hand as I cried, laughed, yelled, and healed. He is now my fiancé. After a 24-year battle with meth addiction, he is clean, and so am I, free from all drugs and alcohol. Together, we are building a life I once dreamed of. I survived all of this to offer hope to others. No matter what we face in life, we must hold on and stay true to ourselves. Broken people break people; it is our responsibility to heal ourselves. When we find hope, we find a way out—but we must love ourselves first. I want to spend the rest of my life walking alongside others in need of hope, giving a voice to those who have lost theirs, and standing against all forms of violence. We are perfectly imperfect, just the way we are.