Hell is a house
on the corner
Before the court filings, before the gang stalking, before his assaults... I thought I was in love, and I thought he loved me, too. Cliche, I know.
This is the beginning.
In late summer, early fall of 2018, I was beginning my final semester of graduate school at Tulane University in New Orleans. My dream of becoming a therapist specializing in trauma treatment was one step closer to fruition. I had been attending my own individual therapy and was finally beginning to recognize the unhealthy dynamics of my family of origin. Tiny nuggets of memory had started to return. For the first time, I felt on track—toward healing, toward independence.
Then I met Sam.
left: the day I moved to NOLA, Aug. 2017
right: my graduate student ID card
left: me having a Breakfast at Tiffany's moment, Halloween 2018
right: me thinking I was in love, Nov. 2018
He was standing on the balcony of a crowded, sweaty bar on Frenchmen Street—a strip of tourist-trap watering holes I usually avoided. But two of my classmates were meeting Hinge dates there, so I tagged along. Sam had a buzz cut, a full beard, piercing green eyes, and a deep, resonant voice. He was devastatingly handsome, with an empathetic, quirky charm that seemed to mirror my own. I thought I was falling in love.
Now I know—I was falling into a trap.
He was in New Orleans for a bachelor party, visiting from Wilmington, North Carolina. He said he was going through a breakup—whether or not that was true, I still don’t know. In hindsight, I wonder if he lied about the timeline of their relationship. I sometimes struggle with guilt over whether I was unknowingly the other woman.
We quickly fell into an intense long-distance relationship. Two and a half months later, I found out I was pregnant—despite every effort to avoid it, Plan A and Plan B included.
I’ve always believed every woman should make the choice that’s right for her body and life. For me, I felt immediately and profoundly connected to my daughter’s spirit. Abortion was not something I ever truly considered. I was terrified, yes—but also elated. I didn’t feel entirely worthy of motherhood, but I was determined to become the best version of myself for her.
right: the day I first found out I was pregnant, Nov. 2018
​
below: a still photo from a counseling session recorded (required for clinical internship) while I was pregnant
above: my NOLA
apartment after selling furniture,
Dec. 2018.
​
left: baby's first
photo, Feb. 2019
I finished out my last semester of graduate school while nauseated to a degree I’d never experienced. I tried to keep the pregnancy private, but it’s hard to hide when you’re on the verge of vomiting constantly.
​
One week after graduating in December 2018, I moved to Wilmington—where I had no friends, no family, and no income. Within 24 hours of moving in with him, I knew in my gut that I had made a terrible mistake.
He would explode in uncontrollable rage. His eyes would go black, his face flushed scarlet. Fists clenched, he would scream an inch from my face, calling me every name you can imagine.
Sometimes I think about how the first sounds my daughter heard from the womb were her father screaming “trash” or “stupid bitch” at her mother—and I feel like I failed her.
I know I should have left sooner. But after every explosion came an apology, a meal, a promise to change. He agreed to go to couples counseling. I told myself it was fixable. I told myself it would get better.
It didn’t.
Over the next six years, some things did change. He bought himself a new house. A new car. We had another beautiful daughter. But the abuse continued. It didn’t lessen; it evolved. He became more calculated, more insidious—like a two-headed monster refining his craft.
After years of this, I did the unthinkable: I cheated. It has taken a lot of healing for me to speak about my own infidelity. For a long time, I was paralyzed by shame. I still deeply regret acting outside my values. But I also understand that I was trying to escape the hell I was financially and emotionally trapped in.
Looking back, I realize I knew he would never let me move out—unless he believed it was his idea to discard me. If I’m being honest, I wanted him to catch me. I knew he hacked into my phone. I knew he knew my passwords. I knew he monitored my every move. He already treated me with contempt when he thought no one was watching. So I gave him a reason to finally let me go.
In May 2023, he did let me move out. But just before I walked out of his front door for the last time, his eyes went black again. He leaned over the kitchen counter and growled, smirking: "I will bury you."
That is the one promise he did keep.
above: baby's "welcome" board in the NICU, July 2019. I delivered
her via induction after life-threatening pre-eclampsia.