Survivor Stories
From Silence to Strength—One Story at a Time
Stories by Survivors who Dare to Make a Difference
Gabriel L.
There are parts of my story that still feel too big to put into words. But silence is where abusers thrive. And I’ve lived enough of my life in silence.
I was married to someone I loved deeply—or thought I did. He was charming, successful, and always knew how to say the right things when other people were watching. But behind closed doors, he was someone else entirely. Someone who used affection as a weapon. Someone who broke me down slowly—not with fists alone, but with manipulation, humiliation, and control so subtle at times I didn’t realize until I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. I was emotionally and psychologically abused in ways that left invisible scars. I learned to smile through panic. To let myself disappear if it meant avoiding his wrath. I was always managing his moods. Always calculating how not to set him off.
That’s the hardest part about surviving abuse. It’s not just the bruises or the fear. It’s the erosion of your sense of self. It’s believing you’re unlovable, that you caused it, that if you were just quieter, better, more obedient—it would stop.
But it never did.
Even after I left, the abuse didn’t end. It evolved. Into stalking. Into threats. Into digital surveillance. Into legal maneuvers meant to bankrupt me emotionally and mentally. He weaponized my past, my pain, even my healing. He sent people after me—proxies, flying monkeys—people who pretended to care just to report back to him, or to trigger me into
silence again.
And yet—I kept surviving. Day after day, I kept choosing myself, even when it felt unnatural. I leaned into truth. I documented everything. I sought help, even when help wasn’t built for someone like me. And I held onto the love of my dogs, who were the only beings in my life I never had to hide from.
It was through that long, grueling journey that I realized something gutting: there weren’t enough resources for men like me. Especially not gay men. I’d call hotlines and be told to call back when I was “in real danger.” I’d look for shelters and be told they weren’t equipped for men. I’d see websites that only spoke to female victims, as though abuse has a gender. So I built what didn’t exist for me: The Rainbow Resilience Foundation.
This foundation is my answer to every time I was told I didn’t qualify as a victim. I’m still healing. I still flinch sometimes when I hear certain tones. I still carry grief for the parts of me that were lost in that relationship. But I also carry pride. I carry power. I carry the responsibility of turning my pain into purpose—not just for myself, but for every man who’s ever been told to “man up” instead of ask for help.
Anonymous
Five years ago, I was working as a healthcare worker in a state outside of Arizona. Some friends introduced me to a man who I considered my dream. For about a year and a half, our relationship was good. I called that the honeymoon phase. Unfortunately, things would soon go downhill. He was continually insulting me and chipping away at my self-esteem and my dignity. The financial and emotional abuse became so physical, and I felt my life was in danger.
It seemed as if he needed total control of me. He wanted to monitor all my comings and goings – especially my phone calls.
He would call my work phone on an average of 30 times an hour, making sure I was at work.
He was extremely jealous and possessive. Anything or anyone that was not focused on him became a huge fight. He often would go into a rage without warning or reason. I always felt like I was walking on eggshells. I never knew when the (other) shoe was going to drop.
He often threatened to kill me many times when I was driving home. He would pull the steering wheel so that we would drive into the canal. Most canals were 100 feet deep and full of alligators and poisonous snakes.
Control, isolation, and fear were how he ruled.
Ron B.
It is love. It is a small word. It can present itself in different ways and have many consonants and vowels. It is amazing, powerful, and forever.
It’s the time on our couch at night enjoying movies together. There is his cooking and my dish washing. Both of these and just the intimate time we’ve spent as partners on these occasions.
It’s simply knowing he is there when I come home at night. Taking our dog Buddy for his walk each evening. Exchanging stories of nothing and everything while side by side. Strolling around the neighborhood.
It’s the warm thoughts in the cold times when he’s not sitting there with me. I provide a cool caress when he’s feeling sick with a fever. I can help him. We’re there for each other. In sickness. And in health.
It’s talking nonsense and not worrying if I will be judged. He understands. Letting me know to go ahead and be me. There is the excitement of sharing the news of the day. We could share it with anyone. Nope. It just wouldn’t be the same. Wait until you hear about what happened today.
It’s not holding hands when we are together. But still knowing we are joined. The song on the radio confirms that we are indeed of a connection. Those melodies on the FM station pour forth in tough times and say It’s Your Love that lets me know It’s (Not) The End of The World as We Know It.
It’s the passion of having an amazing alliance amid even all the thrilling changes. We love witnessing the beauty of nature with its lightning and thunder in the big storm. Holding us both speechless and captivated. At a time together like this. We have no words to speak. Yet. We have all the answers.
It’s the wind and hail and rain that come in such a monsoon fury. Mere minutes ago I was in such a safe place. These winds of chaos toss me around.
It’s quite frightening. I’m aware a stranger has entered our home. This is not at all what I expected. The fire has been extinguished. Iciness enters every part of my being. I am shivering.
It’s really likely to be a mistake. It doesn’t make any sense. With a thud it has gone from summer to winter. My blanket has been stripped away from me. I’m on my own. It’s not that I don’t try to reach out for his help. I do. He just isn’t extending his hand to bring me to safety. I can’t understand anything at this point. He is yelling at me. There is an eeriness present. The sound on the radio has turned to white noise.
It is amazing, powerful, and forever. It has presented itself to me with its five consonants and three vowels. It is a big word. It is betrayal.
John
I never thought I’d be in an abusive relationship. Growing up, I was always taught that men were supposed to be strong, protective, resilient. I believed that. I lived by it. So when I met Sarah (not her real name), I thought I’d found my person. She was kind, affectionate, and for a while, made me feel like I was the center of her world. But over time, things changed.
At first, it was small stuff. She’d make comments about how I dressed, or throw in the occasional passive-aggressive jab about my career. I brushed it off, assuming she was just stressed. But it didn’t stop there. The criticism got harsher. She started putting me down in front of friends, telling me I wasn’t enough, and during arguments, she’d sometimes grab or shove me.
Every time I tried to talk to her about how it made me feel, she’d burst into tears, apologize, and promise to do better. And somehow, I’d be the one feeling guilty for even bringing it up.
Over time, I became a shell of myself. I stopped seeing friends. I lost confidence. I couldn’t focus at work. It felt like I was constantly walking through fog—tired, confused, and stuck. I started questioning myself—wondering if I was the problem, if maybe I really wasn’t good enough.
Gus B.
I would numbly submit to it and tell her I wasn’t cheating—I only loved her, and I was so sorry she was unhappy. Eventually she would calm down, and tell me that if she ever found out I was cheating, she would kill me. I rationalized that now she knew that I was a ‘good” guy,’ and our marriage would be better. But the abuse started immediately. Each time she beat me she would use a different weapon—flower vases, shoes, frying pans, cooking utensils—and sometimes, just her fists. Sometimes I would try holding her wrists to keep her from hitting me, and I would leave bruises where I held them. She threatened to call the military police and show them the bruises as proof that I was abusing her. Hitting her, for any reason, would have made me an abuser. Far too often, I hear of men who beat women and use the excuse is that they were just defending themselves. ‘Defense’ is protecting yourself, inflicting violence is offensive in nature. Violence met with violence only leads to more violence.
I hesitantly started to make comments on social media. I was afraid people would say this is not my place, as a man. But suddenly, people were supporting what I was saying, thanking me for speaking up. It gave me hope, and it got a lot off my mind.
I’m able to talk to other people about my story now, and when they do call me a wimp I don’t care. You need to talk to somebody. Today, it seems like, domestic violence advocacy is much more open to the fact that men are victims, too.
Christopher A.
Trauma is not something that needs to define who and what we are. We all go through ups and downs. A lot of time we think about the down cycle as walking through a dark tunnel. The challenge isn’t trying to get out, but rather to take a step forward. As long as you’re moving forward, you’ll get to a different place.
It takes a tremendous amount of strength and courage to survive trauma. If you’re still here, that’s something you should congratulate yourself on. Just surviving is something we should praise.