Broken: A Survivors Tale💜

Hi, my name is Lyda Wilson, and this is my story. As I recall all of this, I am now thirty-two years old. With the events of my story taking place almost ten years ago. Gosh, it's so strange. It feels like it happened yesterday, not a decade ago! I suppose time flies when one is busy and happy. When did everything begin? That's a difficult question, as there were a few small things here and there that, in hindsight, I ignored. If I have to choose the pivotal moment, though, it would have to be after our wedding ceremony.

His name was Michael Wilson, and he was my first true love. He was an energetic, charming, ambitious, twenty-six-year-old college graduate. He worked in real estate with his father, a well-known mogul in Las Vegas. Meanwhile, I was a twenty-two-year-old high school graduate who worked as a server at his father's casino. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, and I still don't. The one thing I know is that he wanted me. Badly.

Michael came in for drinks one night, necktie loosened from a long and stressful day. He was ranting about clients, the other employees being incompetent, and how nobody listened to him despite being second-in-command. I didn't interrupt him or speak one way or another; I just stood there cleaning off the bar, listening to him. Letting him vent his anger. After a few moments of silence, he looked at me, smiling, and said: "You're a keeper, you know that?"

It was such a strange, yet flattering remark. I wasn't a whore per se, but I did date around a lot in high school. In those four years, none of the guys ever called me a keeper. So, instead of being weirded out, I smiled back and said: "Thank you, sir."

He smirked at my words. "Hm, 'Sir' sounds good coming from your mouth." He ran his hand through his thick, curly brunette hair. "I'd like to hear it again, dear."

Every nerve in my body lit on fire. His words carried a sensual invitation to more. His dark brown eyes were burning with desire as his plump, whiskey-soaked lips were begging to be bitten. A charming flirting technique, no doubt. Cultivated to seduce young, unsuspecting women.

I fell for the bait. In my most flirtatious tone, I purred, "Yes, Sir. Whatever you want."

He pushed his glass to me, staring me dead in the eyes as he ordered, "Pour me another. Make one for yourself, too."

After several drinks back and forth, my shift ended, and Michael whisked me away to his private suite upstairs.

We stayed there for the whole weekend.

I thought it was a short-term fling. A one weekend-stand, so to speak. Michael, however, did not. Every time I worked, he was there, drinking and staring at me. Like he was memorizing every dirty thing we did to each other. It made me crazy, because our weekend together was something I could not forget. Cold showers, toys, and alcohol, nothing worked to erase Michael Wilson from my body or mind. So I stopped resisting the pull.

We hooked up almost every night. It was always after a bad day at work that he would drink himself into a stupor, then he would pump every ounce of anger and frustration into me. At the time, I took it as a compliment. I was the only one who would listen to him, soothe him, and relieve his tension. All without complaint. Those traits should have been red flags, but they weren't. If I could go back and tell myself to quit my job and run away, I would. Then she might not have gone through so much pain.

Roughly six months later, we tied the knot. Michael said that he loved me so much he couldn't wait any longer. It was a small private affair, just his father, him, me, my two female co-workers, and the priest. My parents had passed away a year ago, and my other relatives lived in Atlanta, Georgia, and had no interest in a "sinful" Vegas marriage. Honestly, I should have reached out to them more. But I was a stupid twenty-two-year-old who now had a wealthy, handsome, sexy husband. What more could I have needed?

My dress was strapless, mid-knee length, and the color of shimmering champagne. My bouquet was white lilies, my favorite flower. I wore matching stiletto heels that Michael picked out, my freshly dyed blonde hair twisted into an elegant bun, and a sparkling tiara. I felt like a princess!

And Michael looked like a prince in his custom-fit black and white tuxedo with matching polished loafers.

Everything that entire day was perfect. The food, the music, the company, and the sexy lingerie I had hidden under my dress. That is, until our honeymoon.

We were both heavily drunk, floating on the blissful bubbles of matrimony and champagne flutes. Michael carried me over the threshold of his private suite, a temporary stop until our flight tomorrow afternoon to a luxurious resort in the Bahamas. And flung me onto his California King bed. He slammed the door shut with his foot and began to stalk toward me with a hunger in his eyes. He crawled onto the bed, stopping short of my knees.

I relaxed my legs, allowing my husband to see my surprise. He scowled. Not the reaction I was hoping for.

"You were wearing that under your dress?!" He growled, not in a sexy way either. In an intimidating manner. "It was short! What were you hoping my father or the priest would take a peek!?"

I sat up, covering my legs with a pillow. "No, no, Mikey! It was for you. Only you!" I cried out, attempting to reassure him. "I would never show it off like that. I belong to you!"

Michael ripped the pillow away and flipped me over. He pushed my face into the covers, pulled my hair away from my neck, then sank his teeth into the soft flesh next to my shoulder. The pain was excruciating. My body couldn't stop moving. Like I was trying to escape a wild animal attack. As I was pinned like prey, he shoved his tuxedo pants off roughly. The next thing I knew, Michael tore the dress to shreds with his hands, leaving me naked and trembling in fear.

He pulled away from the bloody, mauled area long enough to growl in my ear, "Don't you ever forget that. You're mine for life." He shoved inside of me, causing me more pain. The act only lasted a few minutes, with him finishing twice and me being denied any pleasure whatsoever. Afterward, he slumped into bed next to me, not bothering to help clean the bloody, sticky mess he created. Then fell asleep.

Our sex was rough most of the time. Even so, this was different. It was like he was forcing his authority on me. Like I was an inferior being that required correction for doing nothing wrong. Although I just became his wife, he treated me like an absolute whore. A paid hole used for pleasure with no love attached.

This was only the beginning of my pain and abuse.

If anyone you know is being abused, suspected of being abused, or are a victim yourself, there is help available. Local shelters and organizations are a good way to start. However, if more in-depth help is needed, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233.

And remember, love is not supposed to hurt.