Twice Broken, Still Standing: Tiffany’s Journey Through the Cycle of Abuse

Apr 20

Written By Team

My name is Tiffany, and I’m a domestic violence survivor.

My story, like so many others, didn’t begin with abuse. It began with a young woman full of dreams, heart, and ambition. I was 19, turning 20, full of life and ideas. I wanted to be a mortician, a teacher, a radio DJ, anything that allowed me to help others and find meaning in the world. I was raised by a strong woman, my mom, a Girl Scout leader with a heart for children and those in need. She was a survivor, too. For 15 years, she endured domestic violence, and she left when I was just nine years old. Her bravery gave me a second chance at family, and I was blessed with a bonus dad, who showed me what love and respect really looked like.

But like many daughters of survivors, I swore it would never happen to me. I told myself I’d never let it. I thought I was too strong, too smart, too aware. And then it did.

I was young, bold, and full of fire. I had a chip on my shoulder and dreams too big for my small, rural Ohio town. When I met my first abuser online in 2009, I didn’t see the danger; I saw a way out. He was from a small town in Pennsylvania, the same place my grandfather was born. It felt like fate. We talked, we clicked, and I made a life-altering decision. Within three months, I had moved in with him, leaving everything behind: my family, my support system, my safety.

I wish I had stopped to think. I wish I had listened to my gut. But I was 20, full of hope, and desperate for something new.

What started as a promise of a better life quickly unraveled into something dark and suffocating. I don’t even remember what triggered the first act of violence. I’ve blocked a lot of it out. What I do remember is being alone, completely isolated. No car, no job, no friends, and no family nearby. He was all I had. When he got angry, he threw a mirror. It shattered around me. I told myself he didn’t mean it. I lied to myself and others. I said he just got mad and threw something. But he did mean it. He meant every shard of that broken mirror.

And then came the apology. The breakfast. The flowers. The tears. The promises. "I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again. I’m a piece of shit." It was the first time I had ever seen remorse like that, and I believed it. I wanted to believe it.

That was the beginning of nine years of abuse.

I survived, but barely. By the end, I was no longer living with him, but the damage hadn’t stopped. I truly believe one of us wouldn’t have survived if it had continued. I carry stories, so many stories, and while I’m not afraid to tell them, I know just surviving is a victory. I look back and wonder how I’m still here. Still working. Still fighting. Still living.

I was resilient. I am resilient.

Yes, my mother was right. Her experiences could’ve taught me if I had been ready to listen. But my choices, while painful, shaped who I am today. I don’t regret surviving. I don’t regret learning. I don’t even regret the pain, because now I can teach others.

But what I want others to know is this: It was never my fault. I never believed I deserved it. I never once thought I did something to cause it. I just didn’t know how to get out. I didn’t want to abandon him. I thought I could fix him. I thought my love could save him. That’s the trap. That’s the trauma bond. I poured all my love into someone who used it to drain me dry.

And when I finally left, I had nothing. But I had me. I had my worth, my fire, my truth. I began to rebuild. Slowly. Painfully. But I did it.

He didn’t just isolate me, he erased me. I couldn’t even get a job without him interfering. He’d go online and attack the restaurants I did food photography for, leaving false reviews and smearing their reputations because I had posted a photo there and because they served animal products. I couldn’t be my own person because I was only allowed to be a version of him.

But once I left, I started to shine. Business started to boom. I wasn’t doing it to prove anything to him, I was doing it for me. That was my victory. And now, through the work I do in Northeast Pennsylvania, through Kline’s Korner and my efforts to raise awareness, I’m reclaiming my voice.

I’m just getting started.

It’s almost like that same voice inside me, the one that said “I’m going to do something, I’m going to make it better,” came back stronger. Only this time, there was no one whispering in my ear telling me I couldn’t. Now, I’m the one saying I can. And I know I will. It’s just a matter of time.

I was telling my friend the other day… I couldn’t be here talking to you, or sharing my story with friends who are going through it, if I hadn’t lived through it myself. You can’t help someone through something like this unless you’ve either lived it, studied it deeply, or at the very least, believe what someone is telling you. Because if you don’t know, you just… you can’t fathom the things that happen.

Every time I called for help, law enforcement would show up, do the paperwork, hand me a pamphlet, and basically say, “Here’s the resource center, good luck.” That was it. Every time. It was always the same. And he was so charming, always joking, laughing with the cops, and they never took it seriously. It’s not that I think they didn’t believe me. They could see it. They could see me sweating from adrenaline, the red marks, the bruises. But it felt like they didn’t want to get involved. Or maybe they didn’t know how.

It wasn’t about blaming them. I get it now, some of them were just uneducated or inexperienced. But at the time, it felt like they clocked in and out of their shift without caring about what happened to me after they left. Neighbors would call when they heard screaming, breaking things, and still, it was the same script. A different cop, but the same pamphlet. The same “good luck.”

And every time, the solution was me leaving. I had to go. Not him. Never him. I didn’t have money. I didn’t have family nearby. I didn’t have anywhere to go. And I’d tell them that, over and over again. But they didn’t listen.

Looking back now, I realize that maybe if someone had just made him leave, just one night, I might have had the space to think clearly. To go home. To save myself. But it never happened.

You become a really good liar in those situations. You learn what people believe and what they don’t, and you use that to survive. I remember my coworkers would joke around about me being tough, because I didn’t take crap from anyone. So no one ever thought to ask me, “Are you okay? Are you in danger?” Not even my family. Not once.

When I saw Gabby Petito’s story in the news, it hit me hard. Like a checklist, going down each point, seeing similarities that were so real, it made my stomach turn. I said, “Holy shit, that could’ve been me.” If Gabby’s story had been out there back when I was in it, I think I would have left the first time. But no one talked about this. People were too afraid. And if no one else was saying anything, I wasn’t about to either. You didn’t talk about your dirty laundry, not back then. Not even in 2009.

And maybe people think 2009 wasn’t that long ago, but things were very different. Social media wasn’t what it is today. It was easier to hide. Easier to pretend.

The first time I ever admitted he hit me was when I left for good. I told my mom he hit me once, but she doesn’t know the rest. Not the countless other times. Not the psychological abuse. Not the manipulation, the cheating, the gaslighting. Not the way I had to lie to a friend and say I was in a car accident after he punched me in the face. My nose was so bad I needed X-rays. And somehow, his mother told my mother. I don’t even know how that conversation went. But my mom flew out for gallbladder surgery I was having, and that’s when she found out what happened.

She knows a little. My dad knows a little. My brothers, maybe a little more. But nobody knows everything. Until now.

Leaving wasn’t easy; our lives were still entangled, and I would have to make trips to pick up my mail. On one occasion, he saw I was seeing someone new, he had hacked my Facebook. And then one day, he strangled me. I blacked out. I was on the ground. His dad was in the next room and never came in. Never checked. Never asked if I was okay. He heard the screaming, then silence… and still, nothing.

That was when I knew, this man is going to kill me. And I left. Again.

I was trying to protect someone else, someone new, and I nearly got killed for it. That started another trauma bond. Another layer of pain. But I carry it. I carry all of it.

I’m in therapy now. I have a trauma therapist who’s amazing. I was talking to my dad about it the other night, after he finished a documentary on Netflix. And I asked him, “Does this sound familiar?” And he said, “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t see it before.” I said, “Well, you do now.”

Because it started the moment he convinced me to leave everything, my family, my school, my dreams, and move 700 miles away. He didn’t offer to move for me. He wanted me isolated. And he got what he wanted.

He started turning me against my mom, my brothers, and my stepdad. Using little truths and twisting them, planting seeds of doubt. He tore down my support system, one voice at a time.

Everything happened fast. And at the time, it felt like an adventure. He was 21, I was young. He had big dreams. Always changing, never stable. He wanted to live off the grid, work for himself, and travel in a van. And I saw freedom in that. I didn’t see the danger.

But then one day, I came home and all my stuff was on the lawn. That was who he really was. That was always who he was.

And now I know, the red flag wasn’t just in the hitting. It was manipulation. The isolation. The rush of it all.

And if I could tell families one thing, it would be to pay attention to that. Don’t just look for bruises. Look for uncharacteristic changes. Look for silence. For the girl who stopped dreaming. The one who used to call but suddenly doesn't. That’s your red flag.

I don’t blame my mom. I don’t blame my family. They didn’t know. I made sure they didn’t. Because that’s what people like him want, to make sure no one sees you slipping away.

So when I saw Gabby’s story, I fell to the kitchen floor and sobbed. My friend asked me why I was crying so hard, and I said, “Because that could’ve been me.”

And it’s true. That van life, that social media influencer path, the controlling relationship, the isolation, it was all too familiar.

But Gabby’s story reminded me: you have to talk. You have to tell someone. Even just one person. Because that one person might tell another. And another. And eventually… it becomes a ripple. It inspires change.

And anytime you turn your head or you don't want to get involved, you're helping their abuser. You're not helping that person. So her story just really, just so similar, that it made me feel safe to just start talking. I can't be quiet about this anymore, because when I saw the ripple effect, I was like, holy shit, there's a lot of people in this world. And I wasn't alone. I just didn't have the resources or the safety net. I had nobody to talk to.

And I think that's the biggest thing, you guys give a huge platform and the network, you know, the true crime community and all these other reporters and media and families, like they're giving everybody a safe space. And that is what I wish I had. More than anything else, just a space to talk to somebody. So yes, I want to arm everybody with these tools.

After leaving my first abusive relationship and thinking it couldn’t happen again, it did with the new relationship, and I was completely blindsided.

They say there’s eight different kinds of narcissism. And this one was a charming trickster. This one was “all the girls want to date him, all the guys want to be him.” He’s got that smooth swag, he can sing, he can play guitar, he’s intelligent, has a master’s degree, had everything. And I’m just like, oh, I can have somebody better than what I was with.

So I was enamored. That’s what it really was. I wanted him. He saw me in my very dark place, and I thought, if this guy’s sticking around when I’m broken and at rock bottom and he sees something in me, like, he’s worth pursuing. Little did I know, that’s his shtick, if that’s what you want to call it. He finds vulnerable women who are broken and preys on them. And I don’t mean prey as in he’s going to hurt them physically. He just knows how to, like the Henry Rollins song, Liar, he just knows how to psychologically wrap you around his finger so you’ll literally submit and do anything.

I don’t know how they do it. I think it’s the purest form of evil. And you don’t know it because they’re fun, charming, even goofy. They’ve got that charisma. And I remember the one thing that stuck with me to this day, and no offense to Dane Cook fans, but something he said to me really stuck: “I meet women and I move them on to where they need to be.” And I thought, good luck, Chuck. And I never processed it until years later. I was like, what the fuck? Basically, I’m going to find you when you’re broken, build your self-esteem up, and when I don’t need you anymore, I’m going to throw you away like a broken toy. And that’s exactly what he did.

He found me in a bad spot. I met a lot of people through him, even good people. The best friends I have now. My career, I changed my life. I found an apartment, everything just lined up. What’s the word, serendipitous? Synchronicities? It all happened in one year, 2018 to 2019. I had the guy, the job, the car, everything. And then it started, after the first year, the bullshit.

He would just disappear. Ghost me for weeks. I had to show up one time where I knew he’d be, just to confront him in public. I had to be that girl. But I stayed quiet. I even went to the cops and reported him for slander. He physically assaulted someone I know because they were sitting at my table during karaoke. He just walked in and hit them. It was so out of character. I’d never seen that before. I thought, for someone who didn’t want me fully, now you have a problem with me moving on?

Why did I stay in that when I had already dealt with that before? I’m helping my friend through something similar now. You go back to what’s familiar. Healthy is unknown. You know how to navigate toxic. That’s the cycle. I didn’t give myself time to process, to grieve, to heal. I just went to the next one and became very codependent. He became my lifesaver. If it wasn’t for him, I thought, I wouldn’t be here. I idolized him. I saw golden rays of heaven on him.

People would ask what I saw in him, and I couldn’t even explain it. He drove me, at the time, in a good way. Now? Different story. He had this aura that made me addicted. I wanted to make him proud. I don’t know what I was doing. It’s weird that I did it twice.

He never laid a hand on me, thankfully, but who’s to say he wouldn’t have? The mental and verbal trauma alone, I didn’t realize how bad it was. I’d been out since July. Looking back, I’m like, holy shit. Seeing him in court, I wanted to puke. I was like, what the hell was I thinking?

Being next to him, it was so odd. He felt like a stranger. But that’s how it ends. He knows how to get in your head, psychologically. And it’s scary to let someone do that, to see how many people he’s done that to.

I had support in court. Someone was there with me. He had his own story too. I didn’t know the hearings were so public. Every bench was full. Sad, that many people are seeking a PFA(Protection From Abuse). When we stood in front of the judge, my abuser cowered. And for me, it was like a sales call. I gave my truth. If you buy it, great. If not, I’m not going to beg someone to believe I was abused.

The first time he asked for a continuance. The second time, I strutted up in my boots, head held high, and didn't even make eye contact.

When I filed the PFA, I felt guilty. But I realized, no, he could have shown up at my house. Drunk. Flipped out. I’m not saying he would’ve, but I didn’t think the first one would do what he did either. I went with my gut, and wasn’t going to stand for any more of his abuse.

I needed to draw a boundary. I warned him. Told him not to push me. He pushed me. So I had to do it. For myself. Because otherwise, I’d still be in it. Miserable. He hit someone for hanging out with me. What would he do to me?

The judge granted an emergency PFA. He saw the proof, texts, slander, and harassment. I had the documentation. It took his power away. He’s mad because he can’t manipulate me now. If he contacts me, he goes to jail. He has no control.

I’m not saying he would’ve killed me. But he was out of character, and I wasn’t taking chances. I needed a year of peace. Mentally, emotionally, because the physical doesn’t get better if your mind is trapped.

I’m healing. Emotionally, spiritually. Physically, I’m still sick, but that’s my immune system. It’s a journey. You’re stuck in your head a lot. But I have a support system now. I’m not alone. I have stories like Gabby’s and others that inspire me. I’m not going to lay in bed and cry anymore. I can’t change the past. But I can help others.

Therapy’s helping. Friends are helping. It’s all helping me self-reflect. To find my own toxic patterns. Because everyone has them. And I don’t want to bring this pain and bitterness into something new. My therapist says, talk. Ramble. Text. Get it out.

And it helps. The more I talk, the more I learn. I listen to myself and go, wow, you’ve grown. You’ve learned. You won’t make that mistake again. Maybe a different one, but you’ll learn.

I’m not to blame for the abuse. But I recognize some of my actions. Like how I used to black out and text novels, so toxic. I don’t do that anymore. I put my phone down when I’m triggered. That’s growth.

Telling my story helps me own it. Control my narrative. Help others. Without bitterness. I wish I had someone who told me this.

Any advice for someone out there?

Yes. Ask questions. Even if it’s uncomfortable. You never know who’s waiting for someone to ask. Don’t pass judgment. If you haven’t lived it, you don’t get to decide how someone handles abuse. Stop asking why they stayed. Start asking why they were hurt.

Call the cops if you suspect something. Offer resources. Even if all you know is 9-1-1 texts in Pennsylvania. Don’t downplay someone’s story. Don’t say others had it worse. Just listen.