Stories

Read stories from domestic violence survivors and allies.

Ms. Adaly Anaya, PD Victim Assistance Supervisor, El Mirage

What inspired you to work in this field?
I actually fell into this position by accident. I had a supervisor who encouraged me to apply to a position his wife had posted for at a domestic violence safe house. I was currently attending college to complete my education in teaching. I enjoyed helping victims of domestic violence through our crisis hot line and found a passion in helping them get to safety. And I stayed in the field by choice.
How have you been able to able to help people experiencing domestic violence through your job?
I feel I have been helpful by helping victims look at the big picture. I am always honest with them. I try to empower them to make their own decisions. I validate their fears and concerns and remind them that this journey will be hard but not impossible. We create safety plans together and help find resources that they may benefit from.
What have you personally learned about domestic violence through working with survivors?
I have learned that every situation is different. Even when you seem to hear the same stories and patterns, they are all still different and unique. One definitely needs to be very patient with victims of domestic violence. One needs to remember that a victim will leave when they are ready and each victim will process the situation differently. It will definitely be frustrating for an advocate because all we want to do is keep victims safe, but we need to remember that victims need to be empowered and not told what to do, we have to be careful not to take the place of the abuser and demand they do what we think is best, they have to make choices for themselves.
What is the most meaningful interaction you have had with a domestic violence survivor?
I actually had an awesome interaction with a past victim of mine. I had helped her and her daughter about 9 years ago at another agency I worked for. She was an undocumented victim and I helped her get to a safe place. Helped her with an order of protection and helped her and her daughter get petition for a U-Visa. Fast forward years later and I ran into her at my current agency. I was so happy to see she was there as the supervisor to our custodial workers and was there to pay a sight visit. I was extremely proud to see how far she had came. She couldn’t stop thanking me and I told her there was no need to thank me, that the work had all been done by her. She worked her heart out to succeed and be in the position she was in now.
Is there anything you wish people had a better understanding of when it comes to domestic violence?
Please know that it takes a lot of time for victims to decide their next move. Be patient with them. Plant the seed and the next will follow.

The Beginning In The USA

I am in a studio apartment. The air conditioner is buzzing making this space pretty cold. There are no windows, only the glass door that we keep closed because it exposes all our inside. Occasional sounds from a street indicate that there are people around. I moved here, to my husband's place, shortly after the wedding. Now I am trying to decorate it, to bring some life and comfort. I am excited. I bought a placemat in a dollar store, and I am cutting it in two parts carefully rounding the corners to give them a smooth perfect look. There will be two of us for dinner tonight: my husband and I. I want it to be special. I had never used placemats before. At home, we have white cloth napkins or regular paper napkins. I am planning to prepare special food, but I do not like to think about it, I do not enjoy cooking. There is not much to do here. Most of the days I learn English. There is no TV. I do not know how to use the computer - a small laptop. I cook. I do laundry every day, it gives me a chance to step outside the glass door.

Our possessions are a camping table from my father-in-law and a bed that my husband's friend gave to him. The most unusual things for me are the crates that we picked up at the dumpster - they serve us as bookshelves. We ride bicycles and buses everywhere.

Soon I will be doing some work helping my father-in-law. Also, I will volunteer a couple of hours at church folding newsletters.

My life is so different here. The lifestyle change is huge. I used to have my own 3-bedroom apartment, and I work at the school, teaching junior-high classes. Perhaps now I am in a better place, but with no money, no friends, no authority.

Finally, my husband is home. He is a skinny young man, who often takes all sorts of pills, including antibiotics. It scares me. He gets sick often. He talks about having terrible migraines. This is why we have lots of small magnet letters on the refrigerator - so he can put words together if a migraine starts. He spends most of his evenings on his laptop. Why he is so attached to it I do not know. I do not speak English well yet. I asked if we could speak it at home, but he decided not to. Our communication is very poor, we do not talk. I am showing him our newly designed placemats. He gets frustrated, saying that they are unnecessary for us. He points out in a strong voice that I should not spend money. I am confused and disappointed. I feel like a mischievous child who did something wrong without permission. I regret my desire to decorate.

With each week our relationship will get harder and harder. I will spend days in prayer, asking God to help me. Then I will start counseling, realizing that I need to learn how to survive with my man. Finally, he will join me, and we will get help together. Unfortunately for the next twelve years, none of the counselors will recognize the abuse in our relationship.

Svetlana, Survivor

Survivor of Domestic Violence

I don’t know how long you want me to make this story, but it’s about my mom. She was a teacher and then got her master’s degree in library science and became a high school librarian while I was growing up. My father was very abusive to all of us, with frequent severe belt whippings, even as young as 3 years old. He treated my mom like one of us. Several times law enforcement was called by neighbors, but nothing was ever done. He had hit her several times and broken ribs but we all covered it up. There were four of us children.

After three of us were out of the house, my mom had enough and left him. My sister (the youngest) was 16. Mom gave dad the house and everything in it in order to keep her retirement. For the next year and a half, he did nothing but blame her for everything that went wrong. One day he broke into her apartment and was hiding in the closet with his gun and bullets, but decided not to shoot her. She called the police, and in those days the thought was that if charges were pressed, he may do something worse to her (instead of punishing the violence and letting him know there are consequences to his behavior before he did something worse). So, she didn’t press charges, though the state should have, and not left it to her to do.

One night, as she was coming out to the parking lot of a junior college from her art class, there was a car next to hers with its brights on and was facing the people walking. She got to her car door and heard a loud bang. She then realized she had been shot and collapsed on the ground. Miraculously, there were EMT’s getting out from a class and walking to their ambulance at the same time. As my dad drove away, they got mom in the ambulance and drove her code 3 to the closest hospital. She had emergency surgery and was in the ICU first and the hospital for a couple of months. My dad was an expert marksman as he had been in the service and served during WWII. He used his 38 with 357 magnum bullets and they should have blown her up, but instead, she was so close range that when he shot her in the back, aiming for her heart, not only did the bullet go right through her, but it deflected off her shoulder bone and splintered on its way out. The surgeons told me the bullet still went through her lung and they could not measure the distance between the bullet wound and her aorta (the large vessel that comes out of the heart) so were worried she would die within the first few days from oozing blood. They said even if that did not happen her life would be severely shortened, at least by 10, if not 20 years. My mom was 47 at the time. The incident occurred in 1973. She is now 99 years old, living in Scottsdale.

LD

Domestic Violence Victim

Five years ago, I was working as a healthcare worker in a state outside of Arizona. Some friends introduced me to a man who I considered my dream. For about a year and a half, our relationship was good. I called that the honeymoon phase. Unfortunately, things would soon go downhill. It began with my partner asking me to turn over money from my paycheck every week. And if I refused or didn’t give him enough, he became angry and threatening. He was continually insulting me and chipping away at my self-esteem and my dignity. The financial and emotional abuse became so physical, and I felt my life was in danger.

It seemed as if he needed total control of me. He wanted to monitor all my comings and goings – especially my phone calls.

He would call my work phone on an average of 30 times an hour, making sure I was at work.

He was extremely jealous and possessive. Anything or anyone that was not focused on him became a huge fight. He often would go into a rage without warning or reason. I always felt like I was walking on eggshells. I never knew when the (other) shoe was going to drop.

He often threatened to kill me many times when I was driving home. He would pull the steering wheel so that we would drive into the canal. Most canals were 100 feet deep and full of alligators and poisonous snakes.

Control, isolation, and fear were how he ruled.

My times when I was in prayer or reading my bible were a problem for him. All he cared about was having everything his way.

Deep inside, I know my worth. And I needed to be myself once again. I needed to fall in love with me.

But I was determined to live. With the help of my family, I was able to plan and successfully leave my abuser. I ended up here in Arizona. I was given a hotline number for domestic violence shelters. I kept calling until they answered, and room was made for me at a traditional domestic violence shelter. I was grateful for the help they provided. But I felt I didn’t belong there. It was full of young women with young children. While at the shelter, my case manager referred me to a program called DOVES, which serves older victims of abuse. I started attending their late-night domestic violence support groups. The other women in the group seemed to understand what I was sharing. Being similar in age we shared the same cultural values. For the first time, I felt relief and not alone. The meetings gave me hope, information, and began to restore my dignity. While attending DOVES group meetings, I applied and was accepted into a transitional housing program.

DOVES provided for me a safe and secure place of my own, a full pantry, two meetings and a well-check every Tuesday, and assistance in finding housing for age 50 and over, weekly case management, applying for job benefits such as social security, Medicare, and transportation assistance.

DOVES to me is an expert on aging resources. DOVES is a listening ear, and a heart full of wisdom.

I know there are others like me who are experiencing their own stories of abuse, and abusive relationships. I want you to know how important it is to reach out for help. There are agencies like doves that can help. I urge you to call the area agency on aging help line at any time, 24 hours a day at 602-264-4357.

I now realize my dignity was never lost. It was denied by someone I trusted and someone I loved. Through my faith in God and my determination to survive, through the DOVES program, my dignity has been restored.

Although we have become a disposable society, seniors should never be thought of as being disposable. We have much to offer: wisdom, life experiences, and knowledge.

Unfortunately, my abuser was never held accountable, but others can be through the work of law enforcement and prosecutors.

Marie

Two Words

This domestic violence story is brought to you by that guy caught somewhere between fight and flight. That frozen guy is Ron Blake and he's thawing out next to the glowing embers of a faded love.

It is love. It is a small word. It can present itself in different ways and have many consonants and vowels. It is amazing, powerful, and forever.

It’s the time on our couch at night enjoying movies together. There is his cooking and my dish washing. Both of these and just the intimate time we’ve spent as partners on these occasions.

It’s simply knowing he is there when I come home at night. Taking our dog Buddy for his walk each evening. Exchanging stories of nothing and everything while side by side. Strolling around the neighborhood.

It’s the warm thoughts in the cold times when he’s not sitting there with me. I provide a cool caress when he’s feeling sick with a fever. I can help him. We’re there for each other. In sickness. And in health.

It’s talking nonsense and not worrying if I will be judged. He understands. Letting me know to go ahead and be me. There is the excitement of sharing the news of the day. We could share it with anyone. Nope. It just wouldn’t be the same. Wait until you hear about what happened today.

It’s not holding hands when we are together. But still knowing we are joined. The song on the radio confirms that we are indeed of a connection. Those melodies on the FM station pour forth in tough times and say It’s Your Love that lets me know It’s (Not) The End of The World as We Know It.

It’s the passion of having an amazing alliance amid even all the thrilling changes. We love witnessing the beauty of nature with its lightning and thunder in the big storm. Holding us both speechless and captivated. At a time together like this. We have no words to speak. Yet. We have all the answers.

It’s the wind and hail and rain that come in such a monsoon fury. Mere minutes ago I was in such a safe place. These winds of chaos toss me around.

It’s quite frightening. I’m aware a stranger has entered our home. This is not at all what I expected. The fire has been extinguished. Iciness enters every part of my being. I am shivering.

It’s really likely to be a mistake. It doesn’t make any sense. With a thud it has gone from summer to winter. My blanket has been stripped away from me. I’m on my own.

It’s not that I don’t try to reach out for his help. I do. He just isn’t extending his hand to bring me to safety. I can’t understand anything at this point. He is yelling at me. There is an eeriness present. The sound on the radio has turned to white noise.

It is amazing, powerful, and forever. It has presented itself to me with its five consonants and three vowels. It is a big word. It is betrayal.

Ron Blake

For more information about Ron Blake’s story you can check out the following link from domesticshelters.org.

Emotional Abuse

When people hear about domestic violence, they often think of physical abuse—black eyes, bruises, and visible scars. But not all abuse is as obvious. For me, it wasn’t just about physical harm. It was about control and manipulation. The bruises were there, but the emotional abuse ran far deeper, leaving scars that weren’t as visible but were just as painful.

I was trapped in a life where every part of me—my mind, my emotions, and my sense of self—was slowly taken away. It wasn’t just the occasional outburst of anger or a random shove. It was the constant belittling, the words that chipped away at my confidence, convincing me I was worthless without him. I was told, over and over, that I couldn’t survive on my own, that I was nothing, and over time, I believed it. I gave up my home, my belongings, my friends, and my family—everything that grounded me in the world. All I had left was him and our kids.

At first, I thought if I just did what was expected, things would get better. But I quickly realized that nothing was ever enough. My role was reduced to being a caregiver, not just for the children, but for him too. I was to stay at home, isolated from the world, caring for the kids. I had no freedom to make decisions for myself or for them. Even grocery shopping was an act of control. He would give me a list, meticulously calculated down to the last dollar. I wasn’t given the money until I was at the register, and if the total didn’t match exactly, I’d face his wrath. I had no choice but to comply, because I knew the consequences of failing him.

Everything I did was monitored. I could only leave the house when he allowed it, and only if I had one or more of the kids with me. Even then, I was timed. We couldn’t even go to the park without his approval, because it was 'a waste of time, gas, and money.' Slowly, my life stopped being mine. I was living, but not really. I was merely existing, surviving from one day to the next.

But the day things shifted was when the abuse extended to my children. Seeing them suffer, knowing I couldn’t protect them within that environment, made me realize I had to act. I had been willing to endure for myself, but not for them. That was my breaking point. It took everything in me to leave, and when I did, I left with nothing. All I had were my kids and whatever we could fit into the car of a friend’s parents. We went into hiding, unsure of what the future held, but knowing that anything was better than staying.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but also the most necessary. I left behind everything I had known, but in doing so, I gained something far more valuable—my freedom. It took time to rebuild my life, to heal from the trauma, and to rediscover who I was outside of that relationship. But I did it. And now, when I reflect on that period of my life, I no longer feel defeated. I feel strong. Because I survived. I got out. And that’s something no one can ever take away from me.

Leaving wasn’t the end of my journey, but it was the beginning of reclaiming my life, of learning that I am enough, that I am worthy of love and respect, and that I am stronger than I ever knew.

Nicole

Interim Special Projects Administrator
Matthew Finley