They Don’t Let You Out Alive

There are days I wish I had died back then.

Not because I hate my life, but because surviving it didn’t mean I was free.

You think when you claw your way out of hell — when you escape the man, the system, the rooms, the lies — that you’ll finally get to breathe. That there will be sun. That people will believe you, hold you, offer you a seat at the table.

But that’s not what happens.

What happens is: they hunt you.

For the choices you made while trying to stay alive.

For what you wore.

For what you didn’t say soon enough.

For saying too much.

They dig through the wreckage of your past, not to offer help, but to light it on fire.

They call you liar, whore, grifter, fake.

They post pictures. They mock your body. They weaponize your pain as proof that you deserved it.

They don’t even know what they’re punishing you for — only that a woman with a story like mine should be silent. Should disappear.

When you grow up in violence, your body learns early how to survive:

Shut down. Shape shift. Smile. Perform.

And when you finally begin to speak — to tell it like it was, no edits — people look at you like you’re the monster.

Not the men who hurt you.

You.

I carry the weight of being “too much.”

Too broken. Too raw. Too real.

Even now, people will read this and say I’m manipulating. That I’m dangerous. That I should go away quietly.

But I didn’t stay quiet.

And I’m not going to now.

I want you to know what it feels like to open your phone and see your trauma used as clickbait.

To be called a liar by strangers who don’t know your name, but somehow know enough to want you dead.

I want you to know the kind of pain that makes your own skin feel like a weapon.

The kind that wakes you in the middle of the night with your heart beating like it’s trying to escape.

The kind that makes you self harm just to make the noise stop.

That makes death feel like rest.

It isn’t just bullying.

It’s spiritual assassination.

And somehow, I still live.

Still write.

Still love.

Still want to help other people make it out.

That’s why I’m starting this Substack.

Not to beg for your pity. Not to sanitize the story.

But to speak the truth — mine — without apology.

If you’re here, maybe you know what it feels like to be hunted too.

Maybe you know what it’s like to be punished for surviving.

Maybe you’re tired of pretending to be palatable.

So am I.

Let’s stop being quiet.

Let’s tell the truth.

Even if our voices shake.

Even if they never stop coming for us.

We’re still here.