You’re imagining it.

The wind hit the house again, hard. Branches slapped the siding like fists. Rain cut sideways and soaked the porch. My hair plastered to my face, mud squished between my toes. My knees were pulled up, arms wrapped around them. My chest tightened. And suddenly, I heard him. Not in person, not in the room, just in my head.

“You’re imagining things,” he said.

I flinched. The words were burned into me. Too calm. Too cruel. Too precise. Every storm, every loud noise, every shadow in the corner came with those words.

“You’re too sensitive.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“That never happened.”

“You’re imagining it.”

Thunder cracked. My hands shook. My body curled in on itself like it was still trained to survive him. My breath came fast. My chest tightened more than the cold could. I whispered to the wind, “I’m not imagining anything.” My voice shook. But it was mine. Not his.

Leaving him was only the first fight. Walking out the door, slamming it behind me—it felt like a miracle. Relief hit me for a second. But the war? The war started the moment I realized leaving doesn’t erase him from your body. Doesn’t erase the memories. Doesn’t erase how your chest tightens at shadows. Doesn’t erase how your stomach flips at the slightest raised voice. Doesn’t erase the flinch reflex when someone touches your arm.

I remember lying on the bathroom floor, knees pressed into cold tile, hair stuck to my wet face. My hands shook. My body shook. Tears I thought no one saw. Apologies I didn’t mean. Shrinking. Hiding. Becoming smaller than the floor beneath me. I survived those nights, but survival didn’t teach me to breathe. Survival didn’t teach me to trust my own feelings. Survival didn’t teach me that love is supposed to be safe, not a weapon.

Even now, years later, my body remembers first. A floor creaks, and my chest tightens. A branch scrapes against the siding, and my stomach flips. A car backfires, and my hands shake. I flinch at my own voice in the kitchen. The nervous system remembers long before the mind does. And that’s exhausting.

“You’re imagining it,” his voice whispers in my head.

And sometimes I do. I question myself. I did for years. Maybe I was too sensitive. Maybe I imagined the cruel twist in his smile. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe it was my fault.

But I remember. I remember the nights of isolation, the nights of erasure, the constant gaslighting. I remember the words twisted into knives, the smiles that smothered me, the apologies I had to give for existing. I remember because it’s in my bones. And now, slowly, painfully, I have to unlearn it. One day. One breath. One boundary.

Some nights, the memories still hit like waves I can’t dodge. I hear his voice in the silence, sharp and slicing, echoing the words I swore I’d never hear again. Sometimes I wake drenched in sweat, heart hammering, knees pulled up like I’m trying to disappear. I hate that I still flinch when someone moves too fast behind me. I hate that my own shadow sometimes feels like a threat. But I also hate that I feel guilty for feeling it. Guilty for surviving. Guilty for being alive when he tried so hard to make me small.

I remember walking past the mirror once and flinching at the reflection. My own eyes seemed foreign. They held the weight of nights I didn’t think anyone saw me, nights I begged for silence just to survive. And yet, I am still here. I am still me. My hands still shake, but they also still reach. My chest still tightens, but it also still beats. My body remembers the past like a tattoo burned into my skin—but that same body is learning to remember safety, to remember warmth, to remember me.

I walk streets with my shoulders up, scanning, alert, noticing details no one else does. A laugh too loud. A door slamming. A car horn. I jump sometimes, and I want to curse myself. I want to tell myself I’m overreacting. But I am not. I am responding to years of being trained to survive. My nervous system is not broken—it’s alive. And slowly, painfully, I’m teaching it to live again, not just survive.

Some days, I let myself cry for no reason at all. Not because of him, not because of the past, but because I am exhausted from carrying it. Because living is heavy when your history follows you like a shadow that doesn’t sleep. And then, I let it go. A tear falls, I breathe it out, I let it land on the ground and stay there. I am allowed to release. I am allowed to feel. I am allowed to exist without shame.

I am learning to say “no” without flinching. To hold a hand without freezing. To ask for what I need without trembling. And sometimes, I fail. Sometimes, a joke too sharp or a glance too cold makes me retreat into myself. But retreat is not failure—it is part of learning. Part of reclaiming. Part of telling my body that it is safe, that I am safe, that the world is not only him.

I remember nights lying awake, wishing I could disappear into the floor. I remember pretending to sleep while my mind screamed. I remember apologizing for breathing, for existing, for asking for warmth. And now, I am learning to apologize less. To take space. To sit in the world and let it touch me without fear. I am learning that living does not require shrinking. That love does not require pain. That freedom does not require perfection.

I step off the porch. Mud clings to my feet. Rain drips down my face. Cold bites my shoulders. My chest tightens, but I try to breathe. This is freedom. Messy, raw, wet, cold. But mine. I survived him. I will survive the aftermath.

The storm is still inside me sometimes. It cracks and hisses and rages. But I am still here. I step into the rain, into the mud, into the chaos of memory and life, and I do not run. I do not hide. I stand, shivering, soaked, trembling, and I breathe. I own my body, my space, my life. I survived him. I survived the silence, the cruelty, the gaslighting, the nights I swore I would not survive. And I am still learning to survive the aftermath.

I remember apologizing for everything. For existing. For needing warmth. For asking questions. For feeling. For breathing. And now, slowly, I’m learning to stop apologizing.

I think about boundaries. About how some days I’ll fail, and that’s okay. About how some days I’ll trust someone and freeze anyway. And I remind myself: not all men are like him. Some people will care without breaking you. Some people will respect your limits. That is worth believing in.

I remember nights where I flinched at shadows, voices, myself. My reflection sometimes startled me. My body had been trained to survive. To shrink. To obey fear. And now, finally, I am learning living.

Sometimes, I catch myself holding my breath without realizing it. A car backfires, a dog barks too close, a phone vibrates in the middle of the night—I freeze. My body remembers before my mind does. I want to tell it to stop, to trust, to relax, but the training runs deep. And some days, I think it never will.

I remember the nights I screamed inside myself. The nights I begged for sleep that wouldn’t come. The nights I whispered apologies for existing, for needing warmth, for taking up space. And even now, years later, those whispers come back. They are ghosts. They are reminders. They are me, surviving.

But then I remember something else. I remember laughter I let myself have. Small smiles that no one witnessed. A hand held without flinching. A sunset I watched without guilt. And I cling to those moments. Because they are proof that I am not broken. That I am here. That I am alive. That I am learning to live, not just survive.

I step outside again, into the cold, the mud, the rain, and I let myself feel every bit of it. The ache in my chest, the tremble in my hands, the tears I can’t stop—they are mine. All of it is mine. And for the first time, I do not apologize for it. I let it be. I let me be.

The storm slows outside, but silence presses. The house creaks, but it no longer feels like punishment. Memories float around me, fragments of the life I left behind. I touch them. I trace them. I own them. They are mine now.

I sit in the mud again. Rain on my shoulders. I close my eyes. And I imagine him. Smiling. Cruel. But I don’t run. I don’t shrink. I watch the storm of memory. And I let it pass. Not perfectly. Not fully. But I let it go.

I whisper: “I survived. I will survive the aftermath too.”

And slowly, I believe it.

The next morning, the sky is bruised, gray, heavy. I step outside barefoot. Mud sticks to my feet. Cold seeps up my legs. My chest tightens. And for the first time in years, I take a full breath without apologizing. It hurts to breathe. Hurts to exist in my own body. But it’s mine.

I remember one night, after another fight he said, “You’re imagining it.” And I doubted my own memory. I doubted my own reality. I doubted myself. I apologized to him for my doubt. And it crushed me. And yet here I am. I trust my memory again. Slowly. Messily. But it’s coming back.

Some days are easier. I drink coffee in the morning without guilt. I let myself sit in silence. I laugh. Small. Ragged. Mine. And other days, the memories come like a storm. Flashbacks. Words echo. Flinches happen. Tears spill. And that’s okay. That’s human. That’s healing.

I think about freedom. How it doesn’t feel clean. How it feels heavy sometimes. How silence can be louder than yelling. How the aftermath is a war no one prepares you for. But I keep going. Slowly. Day by day. Breath by breath. One small victory at a time.

I step forward again. The sun peeks through clouds. Wet leaves shine in pale light. I am here. Cold. Muddy. Heart racing. Alive. Free. Not perfect. Not fully healed. But still standing. Still breathing. Still mine.

I whisper to myself: “I survived. I survived him. I survived this storm. And I will survive whatever comes next.”

And for the first time in a long time, I believe it.