Taking Back Her Body and Her Life | Domestic Violence Awareness Month | Evansville Indiana Boudoir Photographer

Content Warning: Today’s post is a firsthand retelling of a friend’s experience with domestic violence/sexual assault and how she escaped and reclaimed her body and her life. Her story doesn’t shy away from the details of what she survived, so please use your discretion about whether or not you feel safe proceeding. And please take care of yourself while reading. 💜

October -

One of my favorite months. You have Halloween, Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and Bullying Awareness Month, just to name a few. But, personally, what’s closest to my heart is that it’s Domestic Violence Awareness month as well.

A little bit about me: Hi, my name is Michaela Neu. I grew up in Centralia, Illinois and went to Sandoval High School just North of Centralia. To be honest, I was bullied and talked about pretty heavily growing up. I had a hard time with my weight and being told I was too fat constantly. Now, I’m 27 years old, blessed with an incredible family, and have some amazing friends. I’m the typical struggling millennial that has absolutely no clue what is going on in the world, but I'm very good at talking about my trauma and explaining my experiences to help others. Besides the bullying I received in high school, I made it through something that others may not have, and I truly believe I did for a reason.

It’s now 2021, and I’m a survivor of domestic violence.

December 10, 2017
I landed the guy I had always wanted a chance with. My best friend. A trusted friend of my entire family. This was it, it was going to perfect. I knew him and I loved him for who he was. Though, I guess he wasn’t that guy at all. I got almost two months of pure and utter bliss. That’s it. Two months. He was a dream come true. I lived in Clarksville, Tennessee at the time with my sister and her husband. Two other individuals who knew this man; my brother-in-law even knew him for most of his life. He would come down and stay with us for a few days at a time, and I found myself driving back and forth to Southern Illinois for him more often than not throughout January of 2018. We became public by the end of January. What a promising start to the new year.

February 4, 2018
The end of the “honeymoon” stage; nothing but emotional abuse. I started to think maybe he is just having some trust issues from his last relationship where he told me he was extremely abused. I believed him (at the time) because he had never given me a reason not to believe him about something this important. Everything he said to me still plays in the back of my mind, especially on bad days. He would still want sex when there were moments of peace; well, it was peace for him I guess. He would go from absolutely destroying me by questioning my faithfulness, my love, and whether I had feelings for someone else to being all lovey dovey on me. He was paranoid by me looking at any other man, no matter the age. I would walk with my head down in public to save myself from the gaslighting later. When he started threatening the lives of the people I loved, I knew that I was stuck. I now saw him for who he really was and at this point, I really didn’t know what he was capable of.

March 4, 2018
Exactly one month from when the mental and emotional abuse started. He forced my hand in moving back to Southern Illinois so we weren’t around my sister and her husband. That same day was the first time he put his hands on me. I remember the conversation before it happened that night — we were discussing the “hurt” I put on him, about whether I was checking out other men or my brother-in-law. He was obsessed with the fact that he thought I had a thing for my brother-in-law. I told him that if he ever put his hands on me in that manner that I would be out. Saying this jump started what would happen for the next month. He said “The hurt I could do with my hands is nothing compared to the hurt you’ve put on my heart.” So absolutely narcissistic, that sentence almost made me laugh but I refrained because I knew what would have happened. Surprise, it happened anyway.

That night in his bedroom at his dad’s house, he took both his hands, placed them over both my ears, and squeezed them so hard I couldn’t hear anything. I could barely hear myself breathe. He was yelling through his teeth at me in almost a whisper. He took me to the ground like that with my head in his palms and as I tried to get away from him he put me in a chokehold. My mind was racing — How do I get out of this? Is this just rage? Am I going to die here? Who is this man? I didn’t do anything to deserve this. — until I passed out. Sometimes I look back and I don’t really know if I ever actually passed out or if it was just my defense mechanism. I could hear him panicking, saying my name over and over again in such a calm yet chaotic way. I sat in his lap and cried uncontrollably. From this point on, I did not get a break from physical, mental and emotional abuse until I got away. Every day was the same. Every conversation was the same. The same questions about everything. Such amazing sex in December and January turned into every day rape from February to April.

For some time, I would look at myself in the mirror at his mother’s house and ask myself — “Are you guilty?” He had convinced me that I was, that I turned him into this. He wasn’t like this before me, and I was blinded by everything. No one before me ever reported it. No one before me warned me. No one before me would even dare to tell me in the beginning because they knew I wouldn’t listen. They were probably right. If someone had told me in January that he was an abusive, narcissistic rapist and severely mentally ill man, I would have walked away and never talked to them again. I owe all of them an apology for ever thinking they were wrong.

By this time, my scalp was raw. I mean so raw. He would pull on the back bottom part of my hair while his palms would squeeze my head in. I was thrown around constantly. Belittled, scrutinized, and just degraded disrespectfully. I felt like a piece of dirt on the floor, but in the corner where the broom doesn’t reach. I stopped seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn’t wear make up or do my hair. He said it was because he liked me best like this, but later I put the pieces together. He didn’t want me to look “good” for other men. I couldn’t present myself as available. Which was insane since he was holding me against my will anyway. We weren’t allowed to go anywhere. So much of me questioned everything about MYSELF. This man has known me since I was a child. He has never revealed his true self in 12 years. Does he pick targets that are already insecure so that he can toss them around easier? Did he even actually like me in the beginning or was I just what he was looking for since there was already so much trust?

Every single day that passed I wished for death. I wished he’d kill me. At least he wouldn’t have gotten away with it. I looked at myself in the mirror after each episode of being beaten and couldn’t even recognize myself. He wouldn’t let me eat, and made me feel guilty when I did. “How could you eat when you’ve torn my heart to pieces?” is what he would say to me. I lost so much sleep and weight. Stress, starving, and everything in between… I was always clean though. He’d make me shower after almost every round; sometimes the next round would start in the shower. I remember flying across the bathroom floor one day and hitting my head on the stone tile wall at his mother’s house. It felt like it would never end. I couldn’t do it anymore.

April 5, 2018
I don’t know if stories like these can actually have a “happy” ending… if anything, it’s an ending with relief. The happiness part of getting away came much later on in my recovery. On this Thursday morning, I felt in my bones that it would be today that I get away. Something was on my shoulder feeding me strength to see the signs. I was praying for one small window. One moment to get out. He was abusing me in the twin size bed we’d sleep in. I was on the inside near the wall so I couldn’t get around him, and I saw my phone on the desk next to us. My phone that I hadn’t touched in a long time, or at least able to do what I want on it. My entire body radiated in pain from everything, especially the night before. The night before, I tried to escape my vehicle’s passenger side door. I was pulled back in by my yellow sweater, already torn from him several times before. He squeezed my jaw as I felt two teeth crack. I was remembering my attempt the night before so I wouldn’t make any mistakes today.

So here we are— him and I in the spare bedroom with the door closed, as he procrastinated telling his mother why he isn’t going to his uncle’s funeral. I hear his sister arrive from out of town, and his father coming in to see why he isn’t going. They’re suspicious. Finally. He goes to the bathroom and I wait to hear the door close. As soon as it’s closed, I grab my phone, open a text to my brother, and say “Come get me at Colby’s bring cops don't respond.” Then I throw my phone in the laundry basket and wait. I wait.

What was actually 45 minutes, felt like hours because of the anticipation. I hear the soft knock on the door, and his sister says “Colby, the cops are here. What’s going on?” There’s that relief I was talking about. I jumped over his body on the bed as I made me way to the bedroom door. I feel him grab the back of my grey shirt as he asks “What’s going on, Michaela?” For the first time since his hands ever landed on me, I was calm. All I said was “Let go of me, Colby.” And I walked calmly through the house to the back door where I was met by a female cop. An officer I knew. I fled to my brother’s car where he stayed there with me not yet knowing everything. I could barely talk.

What happens from here?

In the coming months, I didn’t realize how hard it’d be to get back to normal. It felt like I was moving in slow motion. I was disgusted with my body, even though it just got me through a traumatic experience. I still felt his hands on me, I still felt him raping me, and I felt everything. I was going numb from it eventually. I didn’t know what I felt anymore if I felt at all. I started to gain weight back that I had lost from not eating. It didn’t come back gradually, it was all at once. I tried for months to be myself again physically and mentally. At some point in time I realized that that version of me died that day on April 5th. I stayed in that house where he was; he took that part of me. But the incredible thing is that he took that part of me that I hated. The part of me that was silent and let people walk all over her. The part of me that listened to everyone when they told me I wasn’t beautiful or that I needed to lose weight. The part of me that went with the flow instead of making my own way. I was the extra in the movie, not the main character. That girl died that day.

After the destruction, after the abuse and rape, and after the relief, I became who I needed to be the entire time: a woman who believes in herself, a woman who loves herself, and a woman I will continue to fight for. Someone who isn’t going to shut up about fighting back against domestic violence, about bodies being beautiful, and about strutting your confidence in general. We all deserve far more than we are willing to give ourselves or willing to settle for. This was the man that I swore I’d end up with. And if I wouldn’t have found my voice, my life, or my value, I would still be trapped there. So here I am taking my damn body back. Showing her love that she has been deprived of and should have been getting all along. These photos don’t represent the “sexy” parts of me; they represent ME. The strong, badass, beautiful woman who has made it through something she shouldn’t have.

I stand here today as a fucking survivor and I’m so proud of myself and this body.

If you or a loved one are in need of support or services related to domestic violence, you can find resources here, thanks to Albion Fellows Bacon Center. Albion also operates a 24 hour crisis hotline at 1-812-422-5622 for domestic violence and 1-812-424-7273 for sexual violence. And if you have the means, please consider donating to Albion in honor of those who have survived and those whose lives have been lost to domestic violence.

If you have questions about consent, you can read this article from helpingsurvivors.org