Every time I’m around him, something in me collapses. I can’t look him in the eye. My voice disappears. My body goes quiet. To someone watching, it might look like weakness, but I know better now — it’s my body protecting me.
My Body Remembers
He is family. He wears a good-man mask so well that no one would ever guess what’s buried in his closet. The manipulation. The threats. The rape. He walks around charming people, and they eat it up. But when I see him, my body remembers.
It remembers every moment I was small, silenced, and trapped. My nervous system doesn’t need him to touch me today — just his presence, his words, his attempts to control me, and I’m back there again. My body goes into survival mode.
Why I Can’t Look at Him
Looking him in the eye feels dangerous. Abusers know how to use their gaze — to intimidate, to dominate, to make you feel like you don’t have a choice. So when I drop my eyes, it’s not because I’m weak. It’s because somewhere inside me, my body is saying: Don’t let him in. Don’t give him power.
The Freeze
People talk about fight or flight. What they don’t talk about enough is freeze. That’s what happens to me. My body shuts down — numb, silent, still. It’s not something I choose. It’s automatic. It’s survival.
In those moments, I want to scream. I want to call him out. I want to say: You don’t control me anymore. But instead, my body whispers: Stay quiet, stay small, stay safe. And I’ve learned not to hate myself for that.
Reclaiming My Story
For years, I thought this made me weak. That I didn’t have courage. But I see it differently now. My body has been protecting me all along. It got me through what I wasn’t supposed to survive. It kept me alive.
That doesn’t mean I want to live in freeze forever. Healing for me is about teaching my body that I’m safe now. That I have choices. That I don’t need to collapse when I see him anymore.
What Helps Me
Some things I’m learning:
Grounding: pressing my feet into the floor, touching something solid, reminding myself I’m here, not back there.
Breathing: slow, deep breaths that tell my nervous system, we’re okay.
Self-compassion: instead of blaming myself for shutting down, I remind myself — I’m surviving the only way I know how.
To Survivors Who Feel the Same
If you’ve ever gone silent, dropped your eyes, or shut down around your abuser — I see you. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means your body is carrying you through.
And one day, that same body that froze to protect you will also rise with you in your healing.
