From the Love Shack to the Trailer full of Horror
Surviving Narcissistic Abuse, Rape, Codependency — And Finding My Way Out
“The scar on my lip still catches the light every morning. My heart still skips at loud noises. But I’m here—breathing, healing, and turning the darkest chapters of my life into something that might help someone else not feel so alone.”
If you’re reading this from the thick of it—the fear that knots your stomach, the confusion that fogs your mind, the whisper inside that says maybe it’s not that bad—please, listen:
It is that bad. Abuse is abuse. And you are not alone.
Love in a Shed, Terror in the Forest
We dove in fast, both of us still raw from old heartbreaks. By the end of 2008, I was living with him in a 10x10 shed behind his parents’ place in northern Wisconsin.
Drywall, carpet, a window and a little window AC for the humid summers, an electric heater for winters that scraped below zero—but no running water. Every drop we used, we hauled in by hand. At first, it felt rustic, almost romantic. Like we were building a life together from scratch.
But then I sold my land in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and together we moved into a tiny trailer, deep in the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest. Surrounded by endless pines, the isolation wrapped around us—a blanket that slowly turned into chains. That’s when everything changed.
Looking back, the terror settled in quietly, marrow-deep. It took me years to name what so many of our “encounters” really were:
Rape.
Acts I never wanted. Things forced on me that left me broken and ashamed. The weight of that realization sometimes still steals my breath.
The Cycles That Broke Me
The violence was relentless, calculated.
Choking until the world faded to black at the edges. Punches designed to hurt, but not always leave proof. Black eyes he’d “fix” by cutting them open to drain the blood. My tooth punched through my lip—twice. The second time needed seventeen stitches. Once, a video game remote hurled across the room smashed into my chin, blooming a bruise so deep I thought it might never fade.
But the emotional and sexual abuse cut even deeper.
The constant name-calling.
Being told I was worthless, a “pity fuck.”
The degradation, the infidelity—why wasn’t I enough?
> “You start to believe the worst things he says about you. That’s the part nobody warns you about.”
He lives with schizoaffective disorder, polysubstance addiction, and heavy trauma. When his mental health and substance use were managed, things could feel almost good. That glimpse of the man he could be is what kept me coming back. The charisma. The hope.
Her Story Is My Story: Sisterhood, Rage, and Recognition
His most recent ex-girlfriend is now part of my life, and with her blessing, I’m sharing pieces of her story too—because she’s woven into mine.
Listening to her, I feel old wounds split open. My heart pounds as she describes the same manipulation, the same hope-and-cruelty cycle, the same way he keeps a sliver of hope alive, just enough to meet his needs. The physical abuse she finally admitted. The sexual things that left her terrified she’d caught something from his cheating. The way he makes her feel small, controlled, less than nothing.
“There are moments I want to scream at the universe. Why can’t you see it? Just leave. But then I remember: I was her. I believed I could fix him, too.”
Our stories overlap in ways that feel almost unreal—the same cycles, the same pain, the same codependency that makes you believe your love could change someone who doesn’t want to change.
She’s finding her voice now, determined to stand in her truth. And I’m right here beside her.
Because our stories are each other’s stories.
We lift each other up.
We remind each other: We’re not crazy. We’re not weak. We didn’t deserve any of it.
How I Finally Got Out
There was no big, cinematic escape. Just exhaustion—soul-deep, bone-tired. Fear for my kids. The tiniest, most terrifying steps toward choosing myself.
Therapy helped untangle the trauma bond, the codependency that kept me so twisted up. I stopped tying my worth to his chaos. I chose safety. My kids and I did the hard counseling work—ugly and beautiful and worth every tear.
The Hard Truths—and Hope
Why does someone do this? Untreated mental illness. Substance abuse. Unhealed trauma. It creates a storm that destroys everything in its path. But at some point, self-responsibility has to matter. You can’t keep hurting others because of your own pain.
To every survivor reading this:
You deserve safety. You deserve peace.
Leaving takes courage most people never see—on average, it takes seven attempts to leave, and every one can be more dangerous than the last. That’s why support matters.
If you’re in it right now:
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE) or thehotline.org
Wisconsin resources: Local shelters, county advocacy, survivor groups.
This story is for me. For her. For anyone trapped in narcissistic abuse, codependency, and violence.
Break the silence when you can. Share your story if it feels safe. Progress is progress.
“We’re still here. And that alone is a victory worth celebrating.”
There is some progress--When I was representing battered women back in the 80's and 90's, the average number of times women left and kept going back was 8 instead of seven. Same stories, though, same "causes." Patriarchy teaching men how to be and codependency keeping women thinking they could "fix: him. That was what kept me from leaving an abuser when I was in my 20's. I told my sister, "he needs me!" The way I got out of that relationship, thank God, was he left me! For a virgin! Don't know if that saved her from abuse, or not--doubt it, though.