I talk about abuse to open the eyes of as many people as possible. To reduce the number of victims and to stop people looking the other way, to stop them being silent, because often the only chance victims have is if someone comes to their aid in some way. Finally, because I would like to show all the victims who are lying on the floor that it is possible to get back on your feet, it is possible to be happy again.

I want to make others aware that there are wounds that never heal. We learn to live with them. After a while they are no longer a torment, they are not part of our daily lives, but when we hear about the cases of others or when we are going through a difficult time, these scars start to itch and all the horrors are recalled again and again. It doesn't bang into the floor anymore, but it hurts and we have to allow the feeling to flow through us. It's perfectly normal.

I have a lot of memories: some easy and some horrible ones that I will never forget as long as I live. These images are burned into my brain. One of these happened after a reign of terror lasting several days, when I could no longer take the constant verbal abuse, the punitive and soul-crushing silence and provocation. I dared to say enough and all hell broke loose. An abuser always waits for this moment to justify his actions and make the other person believe that he triggered it with his behaviour, his looks, his words, and then literally gives himself permission to hit. That's what happened then.

At first he just started throwing my objects to the ground, smashing them, and since I didn't listen, he started pushing me, pinning me against the wall, tearing my body with his fingers curled into claws. I dared not move. I knew that if I resisted, it would be fuel for the fire. Finally he let me go and, as I started to clean up the rubble, he jumped in front of me, took me by the throat in two grips and pushed me to the ground, into the splinters and started to squeeze the juice out of me. I was scared to death and had no strength to fight. All I could think of was:

"-God, if this kills me, what will happen to my son?"

And then suddenly everything stopped. Not the act itself, but me. My eyes were open, but I saw nothing. I felt a jolt and it was as if my soul was torn from me. From that moment on I remember nothing: that was my consciousness, my soul's defence to survive the horror.

The next thing I remember is screaming and kicking with all my might, and then somehow jumping to my feet and hitting the animal with my fist. All the while I was thinking, where have I sunk to, what have I become?! I screamed at the top of my lungs: - what have you done, you animal? You almost killed me! And he grinned and said, "I didn't strangle you, I just held you down by the neck to shut you up. It was at that point that I finally admitted to myself that we had to go, we couldn't stay here.

Our escape story from my little boy's father.... Since then we have been living with my grandmother,who is 88 years old, and although I have a stable job,I need a 2 month deposit for rent and I can't afford that, that's what I'm asking for help with now.