Pieces of Her: Death to Life Chapter 4: The Night I Hid in the Ditch

 

Chapter 4: The Night I Hid in the Ditch

Quote:
"Abuse is not a moment. It’s a system. And it lives in silence—until someone dares to speak."
— Anonymous

Verse:
Psalm 18:28 (NIV)
"You, Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light."

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There are moments you never forget—not because of what happened, but because of how it felt. How it felt in your bones. In your breath. In the echo of your heartbeat when you thought no one would hear it again.

When I first moved into his home, I didn’t have a place to stay. My family was moving to another state, and I was young, unsure, and just looking for safety. I thought I had found it with him. But from the beginning, the ground beneath me wasn’t solid—it was sinking sand.

He told people I was just someone he “felt sorry for.” And maybe that should have been the first warning. But I had nowhere else to go.

He would disappear overnight, returning the next morning with hickeys on his neck. When I asked, he would smirk and say “nothing happened.” I didn’t understand what I was living through. I only knew I felt smaller and smaller.

One night, I tried to leave. I ran out the back door and down the alley, heart pounding in my chest. I thought I had escaped—until I turned and saw his father chasing me. I screamed. But no one came. He walked me back to the house. They nailed the windows shut. Tore the phone out of the wall. Isolated me from everyone I loved.

And I told myself…
He just loves me too much.
This is his way of protecting me.
It’s not what it looks like.

But it was. It was exactly what it looked like.
And I was terrified.

I remember how he made me dress. Tight clothes. Makeup. “Sexy,” he said.
“You can’t look like a dude and be with me.”
But then, when other men looked at me, he’d accuse me of wanting them.
If they smiled, I was unfaithful.
If I blinked wrong, I was to blame.

I began to hate how I looked.
But I still craved his approval.
Because I thought if I became what he wanted, I would finally be loved.

Then came the silence. The glare. The look in his eye that said:
You’ll pay for this later.

One night, after another silent drive, I felt it again—that sinking, familiar fear. He turned off the main road and drove deep into the country. No lights. No witnesses. No escape.

I knew what was coming.

And so I jumped.

Out of the moving car. Into a ditch. Rolled. Hid. Prayed.

I saw headlights searching. Back and forth.
Then—another set of lights.
Sheriffs.

They had seen us. Followed. Found me in the ditch.

They asked questions. I lied. I said we were just playing a game. I was so afraid of what might happen if I told the truth.
They didn’t believe me. But I convinced them I was okay.

That night, I wasn’t beaten.
The presence of the sheriffs broke his trance.

And then?
Life continued.
As if none of it had happened.

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Author’s Insight:

There are so many nights I wish someone had stopped me and said,
“This is not normal. You do not deserve this. You are not crazy.”

But no one ever did.
And so I lived with it.
And I minimized it.
And I let myself believe that love was supposed to feel like fear.

But it’s not.
And if you’re reading this, and any of it sounds familiar, I need you to know—

You are not alone.
You are not the problem.
And you are not imagining it.

Abuse is not just bruises—it’s control. It’s isolation. It’s the stripping away of your voice, your safety, your choices.

I’m telling this story now—not to relive the pain, but to shine a light in the places I once hid.

Because somewhere out there…
Someone is still hiding in the ditch.
Still waiting to be seen.
Still waiting to be heard.

And if that’s you?

I see you.
I believe you.
And I’m leaving the light on.

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Grounding Prayer for the One Who Feels Sick from Remembering

God…
Please come close.
I feel the ache deep in my bones.
My stomach turns.
My breath is shaky.
I am remembering what I never wanted to carry.
What I was never meant to carry.
And now it feels like it’s leaking out through my skin and breath and tears.

Please hold me in this holy unraveling.
Remind my body that it is safe now.
That I am not back there.
That this shaking is not weakness—it is release.
It is healing in motion.

Surround me with calm.
With angels at the corners of my room.
With gentleness in the places I used to flinch.

Let every heave of my chest be a breath of freedom.
Let every shiver be a shedding of what was never mine to keep.
Let every tear be a baptism into my new beginning.

Cover me.
Anchor me.
Steady me with grace.

And when I forget, whisper it to me again:

“You are not broken.
You are healing.
And this—this is holy.”

Amen.