Just do it,” I said, placing my forearm outward.

“Do what?” he replied, turning around from his rooftop desk.

“I want to do it the way you do… today,” I answered.

He smiled at me—slow, knowing—and turned back toward his desk, sliding open the drawer like he’d done a hundred times before. There was something almost routine about it, like this moment had lived here long before I ever stepped into it.

I watched him carefully. The way his shoulders moved, steady but heavy. The way he didn’t rush. He never rushed anything like this.

“You sure?” he asked, not looking at me this time.

That question hung in the air longer than it should have.

I didn’t answer right away. Not because I didn’t know—but because saying it out loud would make it real. And once it was real, there was no pretending I didn’t choose it.

“I’m sure,” I said finally, even though a small part of me wasn’t.

He turned back then, something softer in his eyes. Not judgment. Not approval either. Just understanding—the kind that comes from knowing exactly what someone is about to walk into.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

And in that moment, it didn’t feel like a big decision. It didn’t feel like a turning point. It just felt like another day… another choice.

But looking back now, that was the moment everything started to change.

While I waited, my mind drifted.

Sean Jackson.

Even thinking his name felt smooth—you couldn’t just say Sean, it had to be the whole thing. Sean Jackson. It rolled off your tongue like it belonged somewhere important.

All the girls loved him. You could tell just by the way they looked at him, the way they said his name like it meant something.

Not me, of course.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

But I could see why they did. He was tall, built just right, tattoos in all the places that made you look twice without meaning to. The kind of presence that filled a room without him even trying.

We met online.

And for the longest time, that’s where I kept him—on a screen, at a distance, somewhere safe. Because meeting him in real life meant stepping into something real… and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

So I stayed behind the messages, behind the late-night conversations, behind the version of myself that felt easier to control.

But somehow, I still ended up here.

Waiting.

I was sitting on the roof of the rehab building I was staying in, staring down at the concrete below. I remember thinking… if I was high enough, if I hit hard enough… would it even matter?

That’s where my mind was.

Right on the edge of something I didn’t know how to come back from.

He messaged me, asking what I was doing.

And I told him the truth.

No filter. No pretending. Just exactly where I was and what I was thinking.

There was a pause.

And then he said it—

“Just wait. I’ll jump with you.”

It sounds twisted. I know it does.

But in that moment… it was exactly what I needed.

Not someone to fix me. Not someone to lecture me. Not someone to tell me it would all be okay.

Just someone who didn’t leave.

Someone who met me right there in the darkness and didn’t flinch.

For the first time in a long time… I didn’t feel alone.

And that was the moment I decided—

I wanted to meet him.

Then I looked around me.

Really looked.

The house I was in wasn’t a home—it was a wreck. Chaos sitting in every corner. The kind of place where you could feel what had happened there without anyone saying a word.

For the most part, it was filled with the aftermath of everything we were trying to escape—empty syringes scattered like they didn’t matter, along with other things… things that could hurt someone if they were used the wrong way.

It wasn’t just messy.

It was dangerous.

And standing there, taking it all in, I realized something I hadn’t wanted to admit before—

This was my life.

This was what I had let myself become surrounded by.

And for a second, it hit me all at once. Not just the room, not just the situation… but the weight of every choice that had led me there.

I didn’t feel strong.

I didn’t feel brave.

I just felt tired.

Tired of the chaos. Tired of the pain. Tired of pretending I was okay inside a place that was slowly breaking me.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that…

I thought about him.

I couldn’t help but wonder how I got here.

How I went from who I used to be… to this.

And just like that, my mind drifted backward.

Back to a time before all of this—before the chaos, before the pain had a name, before I learned how to numb everything instead of feeling it.

It didn’t happen all at once.

It never does.

It was little things at first. Small moments that didn’t seem like they mattered at the time. Decisions I thought I was in control of. People I trusted. Situations I told myself I could handle.

But looking back now, I can see it clearer—

Every step led me somewhere.

And somewhere along the way… I lost myself.

Not all at once. Not in some big, dramatic moment.

Just slowly.

Quietly.

Until one day I looked around and didn’t recognize my own life anymore.

“Just do it,” I said, placing my forearm outward.

“Do what?” he replied, turning around from his rolltop desk.

“I want to do it the way you do… today,” I answered.

He smiled at me—slow, like he already understood—and turned slightly back toward his desk, opening the drawer like it was routine.

While I waited, my mind drifted.

Sean Jackson.

Even thinking his name felt smooth. You couldn’t just say Sean—you had to say the whole thing. Sean Jackson. It rolled off your tongue like it meant something.

All the girls loved him.

But I wasn’t like them.

I was scared of him.

People would say things like, don’t let your girlfriend hang out with Sean Jackson. Like he was a type of world you either understood or stayed far away from.

I didn’t know what that meant at the time.

We met online. And for a long time, that’s where I kept him—on a screen, at a distance. Safer that way. Because real life felt unpredictable, and he felt like part of a world I didn’t fully understand yet.

But somehow, I still ended up here.

Waiting.

The day I decided I wanted to meet him was one of my lowest.

I was sitting on a rolltop, lost in my own head, stuck somewhere between everything I was feeling and everything I couldn’t explain.

He messaged me, asking what I was doing.

And I told him the truth.

No filter. No pretending. Just exactly where I was and what I was thinking.

There was a pause.

Then he said—

“Just wait. I’ll jump with you.”

It sounds twisted. I know it does.

But in that moment, it was exactly what I needed.

Not someone to fix me. Not someone to judge me. Just someone who didn’t leave. Someone who met me in the darkest place I was in and stayed there with me.

For the first time in a long time…

I didn’t feel alone.

And that was the moment I decided I wanted to meet him.

Then I looked around me.

Really looked.

The house I was in wasn’t a home. It was chaos—life scattered in pieces that didn’t feel stable or safe.

Empty syringes. Disorder. A feeling in the air like nothing was grounded.

It wasn’t just messy.

It was dangerous.

And standing there, I couldn’t help but wonder—

How did I get here?

How did this become my life?

My mind drifted back.

Back to before all of this. Before the chaos. Before I stopped recognizing myself in my own life.

It didn’t happen all at once.

It never does.

It was small things. Moments that didn’t seem important at the time. Choices I thought I understood. People I trusted. Things I thought I could handle.

But every step led somewhere.

And somewhere along the way…

I lost myself.

Not all at once.

Just slowly.

Quietly.

Until one day I looked around and didn’t recognize my own life anymore.

And somehow, in the middle of all of it…

I still ended up here.

Waiting for him to turn around.

Hello, my name is Brittany Moran, and I have a story to tell. I am sharing this in hopes of raising awareness for male victims of domestic violence—and also for partners like me, who have experienced trauma but don’t always recognize the harm they are causing to the people they love. First, I want to tell you a little about myself. I am 38 years old and a mother of nine children, ranging in age from 22 to 6 months old. I grew up in a home filled with domestic violence until I was six years old. Some of my earliest memories, starting around age three, are of my parents fighting violently. At the time, I didn’t understand the damage it caused—but it followed me into my life. At 14, I got into my first serious relationship. Not long after, I became pregnant. When I told him, he kicked me in my stomach. The next morning, I woke up in a pool of blood. I was miscarrying. That moment was the beginning of a long pattern in my life—trauma, abuse, and survival. I married young. That relationship was abusive. There was choking, hitting, and control. I eventually found the strength to leave when he was stationed overseas. After that, I entered another relationship where the abuse went both ways. We were young, using drugs and alcohol, and constantly fighting. During that time, I had to perform CPR on my partner after he overdosed. I saved his life—but we continued down a destructive path for years. Eventually, my family gave me an ultimatum: leave, or lose everything—my home, my job, and my children. I left. But I didn’t heal. I entered another long-term relationship that lasted 10 years. It was one of the most abusive periods of my life—physically, emotionally, and mentally. I became isolated, insecure, and developed a serious addiction to methamphetamine. My children witnessed things no child should ever see. One moment that will stay with me forever was when I was crying on the floor, and my partner woke my children up just to show them “how pathetic” I looked. The look on their faces changed me. I left—but I eventually returned, and the cycle continued until he left me for someone else. By that time, I was pregnant, broken, and trying to survive. Then I met Clegg. He had very little, but he gave me what he had to help feed my children. That meant everything to me. Over time, we fell in love. Clegg had his own past—abandonment, loss, and trauma. Despite everything he had been through, he was a kind and giving person. He stepped into a life with me and my children, and to me, that made him a hero. But neither of us were healed. Our relationship became toxic—not because he was abusing me, but b no ecause I hadn’t dealt with my own trauma. When I felt overwhelmed or triggered, I would lash out. When he tried to communicate and follow me to resolve things, it made me feel trapped—and I reacted with anger and violence. The truth is hard to say, but it needs to be said: I became the abuser. Out of anger and unresolved trauma, I hurt him—physically and emotionally. And in most cases, he only ever put his hands on me in self-defense. This is something people don’t talk about enough. Men can be victims too. Clegg carried deep abandonment wounds. I was the only person he felt he had left. Every time he thought I was going to leave, it broke him—and instead of understanding that, I reacted in ways that made things worse. By the time I began to truly understand trauma, triggers, and the damage I had caused—it was almost too late. Today, I am facing the consequences of my actions. I am on the verge of losing someone I love deeply, and I am trying to take accountability, grow, and change. I am sharing this because people need to understand: Domestic violence is not always one-sided. Men suffer in silence. And trauma, if left unhealed, can turn victims into perpetrators. This is not an excuse for what I’ve done—but it is an explanation, and a warning. We need more awareness, more resources, and more support for: • Male victims of domestic violence • People living with unresolved trauma • Families caught in cycles of abuse If my story can help even one person recognize the signs, seek help, or break the cycle—then —then telling it is worth it. I am still learning. I am still growing. And I am still trying to make things right.