Chapter 9: The Road To Removal Pt.1

Hey sis,
I don’t know about you, but that last chapter? Whew—one of my absolute favorites. I know, I know—it sounds crazy, right? You’re probably thinking, “How could any of this be your favorite? It’s all terrible.” And honestly? You’re not wrong. It was horrible. But here’s the thing—there’s nothing more powerful than the moment the blinders finally come off.

My mom always says, “Once the blinders are off and we see abusers for who they really are, things will never be the same.” She couldn’t have been more right. Because once you see it, you can’t unsee it. That person you once loved—the one you made excuses for, the one you tried so hard to fix—vanishes. Just like that. The illusion shatters, and you can never look at them the same way again.

When the blindfolds come off and the illusion fades, that’s when the real battle begins. Even after you leave, your mind doesn’t always follow. It lingers, rewrites the story, and those worst moments—those things that should be crystal clear—start to fade, while the good moments still shine. They pull you back in. You remember the way they held you after a fight, the soft voice they used when they wanted something from you, those brief moments when they could love you. It feels like withdrawal—your body aching for their presence, yearning for the high of what you thought was love.

But that wasn’t love. Not even close. And that’s the part no one talks about: even after you break free, you have to choose freedom every single day. You have to fight your mind when it tries to take you back. You have to remind yourself that it wasn’t love if it came with fear. It wasn’t love if it cost you your voice. That’s the survivor’s mindset—it’s messy, it’s complicated, but above all, it’s incredibly brave.

Some of us—like me—go through trial and error. We leave, full of strength and courage, thinking we’re finally done. But eventually, we go back. Out of fear. Out of shame for being a single mother. Out of manipulation from the abuser, who promises change, but only lies. Out of guilt. And sometimes, it’s because they make life so difficult that you start to believe it’s easier to just deal with them than face the chaos alone.

I’ll admit it—I went back. Twice. And for all of those reasons and then some!
But even when I did, there was always that voice deep inside, quiet but clear, whispering, “Sis, this isn’t it.”

But let me be the one to tell you that if you ignore that inner voice long enough? Baby, your body will start yelling. Loudly. Through anxiety. Exhaustion. Sickness. Panic attacks. Acne. Weight gain. Weight loss. Your own vessel will turn against you just to get your attention.

Because what we carry on the inside? It shows. It seeps out. It radiates through our skin, our energy, our smile—or lack thereof.

Pain doesn’t stay hidden. Not in the mind. Not in the body. Not in the soul.

You’ve seen it, sis. We all have.

You know that girlie who pops up on your feed a few months after their breakup—glowin’. I’m talkin’ skin on beam, waist snatched, energy light, eyes finally rested. And you’re like, “Wait… who is that??” That’s not just a makeover, sis. That’s freedom. That’s a spirit no longer suffocating.

For anyone who doesn’t understand the toll abuse takes—that glow-up is proof. That’s what healing looks like. Because abuse doesn’t just break hearts—it breaks down everything. But the moment you break free? That light you thought was gone? It comes back—with interest.

So how did I begin my own escape? Where did healing even start?

Like most beautiful things—it began with a whisper. A quiet, almost-ignored thought that said, “This ain’t it.” A gut nudge that kept coming back louder every time I tried to silence it.

Now at the time I didn’t know it but I was building my road to escape and healing around an acronym I now call the “R.E.S.T.O.R.E” approach. Think of it like your personal recovery blueprint:

R – Research to understand the outside. Learn about your abuser, their abuse type, trauma cycles, your rights, and your resources. Know who and what you’re dealing with. And most important research YOURSELF. Take time to learn more about yourself. What do YOU need!? Because yes you should know your abuser but let’s be serious babe, YOU matter the most!  

E – Express through journaling to document the past. Acknowledge your present. Fantasize and manifest your future. Get it out of your body. Write it raw.

S – Sweat through movement to release the pain. Your body remembers what your mind tries to forget. Let it go.

T – Take rest to heal the mind. Rest is resistance. Rest is reclaiming peace.

O – Organize your resources to plan your escape. Strategize. Prepare. Build your way out.

R – Reclaim your identity, your joy, your voice. Remind yourself who the hell you are.

E – Empower yourself and others with what you’ve learned. Your story has power. Share it. Use it.

This is how we begin again. This is how we RESTORE our power.

So, let me take you back to those days—the messy middle. Not the beginning when everything was fueled by anger. Not the after, where things look pulled together from the outside. I’m talking about the in-between. The part no one really likes to show.

You ready?

Timeline- 2018 / 2019

Since my revelation, I knew I needed to leave Cipher. I didn’t know how or when, but I was sure I would leave.

There were times in my life when I watched my mother leave my father. Each time it seemed sudden, chaotic, unplanned. Frantic. And even as a child, I knew: I didn’t want that to be my story.

I was afraid. Afraid of what staying might do to my kids—but also afraid of what leaving mightdo to them, too. I knew I was on a timeline. I had to go before they were old enough to understand what was really happening. Before the memories settled in.

But the truth was—I didn’t know how to leave. I didn’t even know where to begin.

At the time I thought that no matter what happened, Cipher would always be a part of my life. I believed there was no escaping that. We shared two children, and that meant I’d have to navigate some form of connection with him—whether I liked it or not.

In my mind, it was war. A battle for my very survival. I knew I had to be smart—calculated, strategic. Emotion couldn’t drive me anymore. Because Cipher? He lived for emotion—he thrived on it. If I was going to get out of this safely, I had to out-think him. Every move, every word had to be measured.

I had to make Cipher comfortable, keep him unsuspecting. I needed him to stay exactly as he was—in his full wolf mode. I was finished with the games. I was tired of the fake tears and the empty promises. These were always followed by a few months of “acting right.” Then the cycle would start again. I had to brace myself for the worst of him. I had to prepare for all the emotional blows and the cruelty he could throw my way. Because every bit of that abuse would fuel my determination to get out. I wasn’t just planning my escape; Leaving wasn’t just about walking away. It was about being ready. Strategically, emotionally, and mentally. I wasn’t just trying to win the battle—I was trying to win the war.

So, I had to make a choice. I had to learn to understand Cipher.

I stand by this saying: “You can’t conquer what you refuse to understand.”

The first step in learning Cipher was to stop seeing him through the lens of who I wanted him to be, and start seeing him for who he truly was. I had to study him—understand his patterns, his tactics, and his mindset.

I had to learn my devil… so I could outsmart my devil.

I kept things as calm and cordial as I could. On the surface, I played the role of the caring wife, the concerned partner—someone who still wanted to understand, still wanted to help. I needed him comfortable. I needed him to keep his guard down. So I leaned into the moments when he was most open—usually late at night, when the high hit or the alcohol started to settle in. That’s when he’d talk the most.

I’d smoke or have a drink with him and gently ask him questions—about his past, his childhood, his parents, the moments that shaped him. I listened closely, collecting stories, tracing patterns, connecting dots. I wasn’t just having conversations—I was gathering intel. Every answer gave me another piece of the puzzle. And with each piece, I started to see the full picture of who I was really dealing with.

Hold up sis because you NEED to know…

One thing a narcissist loves to do is talk about themselves, and Cipher was no exception. They’ll literally give you the blueprint to their Achilles’ heel without much effort if you just listen.

As I listened, I began to realize that I never truly knew Cipher at all. I learned so much about him throughout this process. I learned that his mother was in an abusive relationship for a while when he was a child. I learned that he had also been sexually abused at one point in his life, which led to his premature sexual explorations.

Cipher spent a lot of his time terrorizing his mother—disrespecting her, sneaking people into her house, stealing her car. He had absolutely no respect for the woman who was raising him. Not an ounce of gratitude. Cipher was so out of control as a young adult. Lena had no choice but to send him to a boarding school called ‘Hyde’ in Maine. She did her best by Cipher. But nothing was good enough.

One of the most symbolic—and perhaps most telling—pieces of Cipher’s past is the story of his birth. He was born in Harlem in 1988 to a mother battling addiction. The woman who raised him wasn’t his biological mother. She was actually his aunt. She stepped in and raised him as her own. Cipher never knew his exact birthdate—only that he was born sometime in October of 1988. That uncertainty became part of his identity, even inked on his face with the tattoo “Circa 1988.” The word circa, Latin for “approximately” or “around,” is typically used when the exact date is unknown. For Cipher, that vagueness wasn’t just about a date. It was a reflection of his life. His life was unclear and unstable. It was shaped by missing pieces he could never quite put together.

My RESEARCH taught me that —Cipher, born “Circa 1988,” was a product of chaos, uncertainty, and trauma. That tattoo was more than just a piece of ink on his skin. It represented the lack of clarity that defined his life. The instability that shaped him. He was a true product of his environment and it caused him to carry confusion with him. The tattoo was a constant reminder of the fragmented past he never fully understood or could come to terms with.

Cipher’s life was defined by deep, unhealed trauma. His disregard for women, rules, and authority wasn’t just a behavior—it was ingrained in his very soul. This pattern had been evident since he was a child, shaped by his tumultuous past. His pain transformed into a need for control and manipulation. His past didn’t justify the harm he inflicted. However, it illuminated the storm that raged within him. It was a storm he never learned to calm. He hurt others because, in many ways, he had never learned how not to.

While I was learning more about Cipher I also started learning me. I had to. I needed to figure out who the hell I really was—not the version everyone else expected, not the girl who had been performing for years to survive. But me. The real me—buried under all the fear, the silence, the pretending.

And the truth hit me hard: I didn’t know who that woman was. I had no real identity. I had been a child when I had my first baby—and still a child when I had my second. Somewhere in between diapers and breastfeeding, I lost the thread of myself. One moment, I was 17, running track and playing tennis. The next moment, I was responsible for two tiny lives. I had no idea who I was outside of being their mother.

No womanhood. No goals. No dreams. Just survival.

I spent hours at what I like to call YouTube University—searching for answers, trying to make sense of what I was going through and how I ended up here to begin with.

As I started digging into my own research, I was floored by how many different forms of abuse there really are. I’d always believed abuse was just physical—bruises, broken bones, black eyes. But what I was going through? It had names. Specific names. And with each label, I felt a new invisible wound open up.

I was a victim of sexual abuse—manipulated, and guilt-tripped into intimacy when I didn’t want it. And even when those tactics failed, I was still forced to comply against my will.

I was enduring economic abuse—my access to money was controlled, my financial independence stripped away. I had to ask for basic things—things like toiletries, groceries—as if I were a child. It wasn’t by accident. This was all part of a calculated effort to keep me financially dependent on him, trapping me in a cycle of shame and powerlessness.

There was emotional abuse too—constant criticism, blaming, gaslighting. I was made to feel like I was never enough, like no matter what I did, it was always wrong. Over time, I started to believe those lies. I forgot what self-worth even felt like. His words became my reality, and my spirit crumbled under the weight of them.

And of course the psychological abuse—the mind games, the threats, the manipulation. I began to question everything, even my own reality. I was walking on eggshells, terrified of which version of him I’d face that day. I lived in a constant state of confusion, fear, and exhaustion, never knowing where the next emotional attack would come from.

Although the scars from the abuse didn’t show, they were just as painful. They were wearing me down from the inside. They took pieces of me I didn’t even know I had to give. My spirit was dimmed, my voice had no sound, it disappeared, and I felt like I was disappearing too.

But then something changed. The more research I did, the more I informed myself, it helped me finally understand what I was dealing with, and for the first time, I didn’t feel crazy anymore. It was like I’d been handed the proof I’d been longing for all along. I felt vindicated. The evidence was there—real, undeniable—and suddenly, I could breathe again.

As I began to understand more about myself, about what I was truly suffering from, it started to become clear—I needed somewhere to put it all. Somewhere to lay everything out so I wouldn’t forget. That’s when journaling (or E – expression) entered the picture.

I remember it so clearly—the first time I saw my first notebook. It was simple, unassuming, just sitting there on the shelf at the Dollar Tree. I grabbed it without a second thought and asked Cipher “Can I have this, please?”

“What do you need that for?” Cipher asked, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“I want to start writing poetry… just poems, for the girls. Maybe even stories,” I told him, trying to sound casual, but feeling a little spark of excitement inside.

“You don’t write. But whatever, get it if you need it,” he said with a dismissive snicker.

I didn’t even bother responding. I was too caught up in the small, quiet joy I felt holding that notebook. It was mine. Just mine. And I knew it was the start of something special.

The cover had the words “Grow from it,” written in soft, flowing script, surrounded by delicate green ivy leaves. Something about it felt like a sign, a whisper of hope. At first, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the simplicity of it felt right, like a quiet reminder that growth is possible, even from the darkest places.

That night once everyone in the house was asleep, I sat down, staring at the blank pages, and I just started writing. The words came pouring out of me, like a flood that had been dammed up for too long. The pain, the confusion, the anger, the questions, the sadness—it all came tumbling out. For the first time, I could see it all laid out in front of me. I wasn’t crazy. I was being abused. I wasn’t imagining it. This was real. And in those pages, I finally started to make sense of it all.

That’s how it all started—a small notebook. But it became so much more. It became the foundation for my healing, my expression, my truth. It became my safe space, a space where I could be real, be raw, and slowly, painfully, start to rediscover who I was beyond the pain.

Sidenote Sis- Here’s what I’ll tell you:

Write. It. Down.

Every moment. Every memory. Every lie. Every apology. Every BS excuse. Every red flag you painted green. Every tear you swallowed. Get it out of your body and onto that page. Writing is like staring the truth right in the face.

Sis, the truth might sting. But it will set you free.

Most of the chapters you’ve read so far? Straight from those old journals. Raw, unfiltered words, written in real time. Long before I ever thought I’d share them with anyone—let alone the entire world.

My journals? They saved me.

Without them, I wouldn’t even remember half of what happened—not the way it really went down. And more importantly, I’m not sure I would’ve had the strength to leave… and stay gone.

Our minds, our souls—they try to protect us. They fog things up, soften the memories just enough for us to keep moving. It’s a survival mechanism.

But forgetting? That’s dangerous. Forgetting makes it easier to go back.

That’s why writing it all down was critical. My journals gave me the proof I needed—to stop romanticizing the past, to stop gas-lighting myself, and to remember exactly why I needed to leave. And why I needed to leave and not come back.

As I continued pouring my heart into those journals, I became crafty with my hiding spots. Every day, I’d move them to a new place—tucked away where Cipher could never find them. I had to protect them at all costs. I knew that if he ever got his hands on them, he would destroy them, rip apart the only tangible thing I had left to document my truth. Abusers can’t stand evidence. They can’t stand anything that threatens their carefully crafted image.

Eventually, I realized those journals weren’t just part of my healing—they were my lifeline. And one day, they’d be my daughters’ too. The thought that they might grow up and hate me, blame me for everything… it broke me. I didn’t know how to explain the pain, the fear, the choices I had to make.

But those pages held it all.

I wrote so that one day, when they were ready, they could see me not just as their mom—but as a woman who fought to survive. A woman who stayed long enough to protect them, and left when it finally became possible.

Their father might always seem like someone different to them. But to me? He was a storm I barely escaped. And if they ever need answers, I hope my words will help them understand that I did the best I could—with what I had, and for who I loved most.

The more I wrote the more anger bubbled up inside me. Anger toward Cipher for everything he put me through, anger toward myself for letting it happen in the first place. I couldn’t believe what my life had become. I could barely even look myself in the mirror. Every time I caught a glimpse, all I saw was failure. I was gearing up to be a single mother of two kids under five years old—and in that moment, it felt like a cruel joke. How had I gotten here?

I couldn’t write away this pain. I couldn’t journal away the crushing disappointment that weighed me down. The more I stared at the pages, the more I read about the life I had endured, the angrier I became. The words in those journals were like a mirror, showing me just how far I’d fallen, how much I had sacrificed. And with each word, each sentence, the anger twisted tighter in my chest.

But something inside me knew I couldn’t stay like this. I had to do something. The rage was suffocating, and I needed to release it. I couldn’t change the past, but maybe, just maybe, I could sweat it out.

I knew Cipher would never let me go to a gym—he’d never allow me the freedom to take care of myself that way—but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I had to get creative. And that’s when it hit me. The kids.

Baby A and Baby M. They were the perfect weights. At first, it felt ridiculous, but I turned my workouts into games. I’d squat down, my legs burning with the effort, then lift them up and toss them into the air. Their giggles, their laughter, the way they looked at me with pure joy—it made everything else fade away. In those moments, it was just me and them. They didn’t care about the mess I was living in. They didn’t know the struggles. All they knew was that I was there, and I was their safe place.

Every stretch, every jog, every yoga session—I made it a game. They were my motivation. They kept me moving, even when I felt like crumbling. The pain, the anger, the weight of everything I had been through—it didn’t disappear, but for those brief moments, it was pushed aside.

When I held them in my arms, when I saw their eyes light up with laughter, it reminded me that I had to keep going. I had to keep fighting—for them, for myself, for the woman I was still becoming.

The more I exercised, the stronger I became—not just physically, but mentally too. Each drop of sweat, every move I made, was building something inside me. A confidence I had never felt before. Slowly, I started to stand taller. I wasn’t as afraid of Cipher as I once was. In fact, the fear that used to grip me in the pit of my stomach, the fear that made me dread sleep itself, began to fade.

There was a time when I couldn’t sleep without fear. I would barricade myself in my bedroom, lock the doors, and sleep with one eye open. It was like a constant state of vigilance, always on edge. Sleep wasn’t something that came easily—or often. It felt like a trap. When I closed my eyes, I was at my most vulnerable. It was the perfect opportunity for Cipher to strike, to take advantage. And I had learned the hard way that when I was asleep, I was weak.

I’d stay up for hours, sometimes all night, just to avoid being in that defenseless state. I’d wait until Cipher was away and do my best to rest during the day. But eventually, I couldn’t fight the overwhelming exhaustion anymore. I needed rest. I couldn’t keep running on empty forever.

When Cipher would abuse me at night, I learned how to numb myself. I would retreat inside, shutting down my emotions just enough to survive. I’d remind myself that it was only temporary. That it would be over soon. I just had to endure a little while longer.

And over time, something shifted. The ejaculation on my face, the rapes—they didn’t hit me the same way anymore. And sometimes I would even sleep through it. I was different. I knew Cipher could see it. The way his tactics didn’t rattle me like they used to, how my calmness in the face of his abuse seemed to frustrate him. He could sense that I wasn’t reacting the way he expected, that something inside me had changed.

And as the days went on, I realized I was no longer playing by his rules. I was that much closer to freedom.

What I didn’t know was that this shift was about to make Cipher take his abuse to a whole new level.

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Chapter 10 : The Road To Removal Pt.2

Launching 4.18.25