My first two exits were bad experiences. I learned that leaving wasn’t enough. Someone had to let me go.

B.S. and U.S. didn’t get involved. They took no action to separate H.K. from me, not even counseling.

Police came to the house. Despite those chances, U.S. and B.S. simply ignored it. Just to save their own shame.

After the second time, I came back. Not because I wanted to. Because I thought he wouldn’t be abusive, or at least B.S. would talk to me.

Instead, he abused me after I woke up.

I stopped telling B.S. what happened. What was the point? She saw the police at the door. She heard me come back. She said nothing. The silence was louder than his fists.

That’s when I understood the rule: In that house, H.K.’s shame mattered more than my safety. U.S. and B.S. would rather see me hurt than admit they raised a son who hurt people.

So I stopped asking them to choose me. I started planning to choose myself.`

The pains and suffering were unbearable.I had little to no knowledge about Samaritans or other forms of self help. I only helped myself with silence, patience and strategy.

No one should have to survive decades of abuse. It took guts and patience to wait for the right time to exit.

The next exit had to be different. It had to be final. It had to be mine alone.