He would call me “fat,” “pig” or “bitch.” We had a little girl together and I wanted to make it work for her sake. But time and time again, he would start “using” again in his on-off relationship with drugs.

Seven years went by before I finally told him I wanted to end our relationship. Then the physical abuse began. For three years, he threw keys at my face, splitting my lip and leaving a gash between my eyes. He threw his cell phone at me during an argument, cutting my back. He pushed me, grabbed me, slapped and choked me. He monitored my every move, every phone call, and every email.

He would harass my friends to try to find me when he couldn’t reach me, messaging them through Facebook, accusing me of being with other guys.

At the beginning of the end of our relationship, he called me constantly. I blocked his number. Then he tapped into my emails and phone to see who I was talking to and when. Then he tracked my car with a GPS app. It was scary. I had to always look behind me to see if anybody was following me. Once he followed me from town all the way out to West Oahu. I was petrified. He would show up at my apartment late at night. He would hang out in my garage.

I showered, ate and hung out at my mom’s house because I didn’t want to go home. Even with a protective order in place, it was hard to sleep or feel safe at home because he would knock on my bedroom walls from outside when I tried to sleep. I was afraid. So I stayed with my mom, but he just came to her house. He would stand by the living room window and call for me, and he keyed my new car. He used the court-ordered visitation with our daughter to harass me despite the protective order, and the police couldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t stop. He would throw rocks at my car in the morning as I left for work. It was terrifying. My anxiety was the worst it’s ever been.

I felt like a prisoner in my home. If I talked on the phone he would stand by the window and listen. He would send me text messages to let me know he was watching and listening, three to four times a week. I would lay quietly on my bed waiting for him to leave. It even gave my little girl anxiety. He wouldn’t stop.

I started to call the police regularly and began reporting him. I went back to court to revise my protective order because it was too vague. I remember he would tell me that the police wouldn’t arrest him, which made me feel hopeless. We went back to court to change the visitation to be supervised with no contact otherwise. I started to feel safer.

I didn’t want my mom to know, I didn’t want anyone to know what was going on.

He finally stopped.