By The Feral Gen X Warrior
“This is my Freedom Day survivor story. I hadn’t slept. That wasn’t unusual.”
On my Freedom Day — though I didn’t know it was that — he had gone to bed in a temper and been just vile. I was in the middle of sorting out a bank fraud. I’d noticed large sums missing from my account and contacted the bank. Days passed, more money disappeared, and by Friday I’d reached my limit with them — not him.
My focus was on the fraud. The bank. Getting my money back.
Not leaving.
That was the day I contacted my MP, who told me to go directly to the bank. He’d alert senior management to take action. I messaged my husband to update him. His reply?
“Oh, so you’ve got the day off work and didn’t tell me? Off to see him, are you?”
But something was shifting.
Not in one clean break — in a slow, quiet drip.
I didn’t know it yet, but the truth was starting to show.
I went to the bank. Spent the entire day there. Closed my accounts, opened new ones — not because I was planning to leave, but because I was trying to protect myself financially.
Still in crisis mode. Still hoping things might calm down once the money situation was sorted.
Still not gone.
When I got home, he was drunk. Angry. Pulling me into the lounge, hitting my head. Grabbing a boiling pan of stew, threatening to throw it over me. Spitting venom like it was casual.
But I had planned for this.
I had a grab bag in my car for just this kind of night — a bag I explained away because of our weekend trips. But it was my quiet shield. My line of retreat.
I’ve put together a carefully curated trauma-aware Grab Bag list — lightweight, practical, and ready to grab in a moment. Whether it’s a hospital dash, car breakdown, unexpected stay, or power cut, these are items I’ve either used during crisis moments or wished I’d had with me.
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I scanned the room. He had snatched my bag off me and hidden it — but I saw the strap poking out from behind a dining chair. I clocked the boiling stew still on the hob.
The air rifle was leaned casually against the wall.
I’d stared down that barrel before.
Talked him down before.
But not today.
Then he hit me again. And I snapped into a different kind of clarity.
No panic. No movie moment. Just instinct.
I picked up the landline. Dialled 999.
“Police please. My husband has just hit me.”
He screamed, “You stupid woman, what have you done?” and threw the phone down.
It was still connected.
Still recording.
I didn’t know that yet.
But I ran.
I grabbed my keys, my phone, the cash, and my bag. Got into the car. Locked the doors. Drove — slow, steady, calm.
Not like in the movies — just the truth.
I pulled over a few turns away, hidden behind a bush, and finally exhaled.
The texts were already coming.
The whiplash of rage to charm to threat.
But I was out.
Abusers are well-adapted at avoiding visible bruises.
He wasn’t very good at it.
I was covered in them.
Battle scars.
🔐 Ready for Part 2?
This is the part I couldn’t publish publicly.
Part 2 holds the raw truth — what happens after you walk out, walk through, or walk back to yourself.
It’s private, personal, and only sent by email.
👉 Click here to receive Part 2 now
You are not alone.
Hold your line. Speak your truth. Walk with me.
— The Feral Gen X Warrior
💬 What part of this story spoke to you?
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