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Over the span of 12 years, I found myself ensnared in a harrowing web of abuse that encompassed the physical, mental, emotional, and financial realms. It was an odyssey marked by relentless put-downs, a litany of cruel words that chipped away at the very core of my being. My tormentor, my ex-partner, wielded their words like weapons, branding me with labels of fatness, ugliness, uselessness, and annoyance. In their distorted reality, I was an unwanted soul, unloved even by my own family.

The physical scars of this ordeal were not limited to words. They manifested in violent acts – the cold brutality of being hit, dragged down stairs by the neck of my shirt, and forcefully thrust into walls. Each assault etched deeper into the canvas of my self-worth, leaving indelible marks that surpassed the physical realm.

Yet, the insidious nature of abuse transcended the visible wounds. My abuser was a master manipulator, weaving a tapestry of deceit that left me gasping for the truth. They played with my mind, distorting reality until I questioned my own sanity. The essence of who I was became obscured, replaced by a programmed version that believed the lies perpetuated by my tormentor.

This malevolent force extended its tendrils into every facet of my life – personal, professional, and familial. The repercussions were profound. I lost fragments of myself along the way, casualties of a war waged not with fists but with words and actions designed to erode the very foundations of my identity.

In the realm of creativity, my abuser’s cruelty knew no bounds. They poisoned the well of my passion, insisting that I was not a good singer, that my music was worthless, and that any aspirations I held were futile. Worse still, I was forbidden from pursuing my musical endeavors, as it was deemed a selfish act, an escape from the clutches of control they sought to maintain.

The aftermath of this protracted abuse lingered in the recesses of my psyche, casting shadows of self-doubt, plummeting self-esteem, and an overwhelming fear of failure. Two years have passed since I managed to break free from this suffocating grasp, but the scars persist, silent reminders of a tumultuous past.

Yet, in the face of adversity, I rise not as a victim but as a survivor. The journey back to reclaiming myself has been arduous, but there’s a beacon of hope that shines brighter with each passing day. Returning to the art that had been stifled for a decade, I find solace and strength. Making music is not just a creative pursuit; it’s a healing force that recharges my soul, slowly knitting together the fragments of my shattered identity.

I am not defined by the torment inflicted upon me; I am defined by the resilience that emerged from the crucible of suffering. The melody of my survival plays louder than the cacophony of abuse, and with each note, I reclaim my agency and declare, unequivocally, that I am not just a survivor – I am me, and I am triumphant.