Montana is cruel.

Her summers are gone in a blink of an eye and her winters drag on. Nights easily reach -40 degrees and the wind pierces you and freezes you to the core. It takes a special kind of person to endure Montana’s harshness.From the first day I met Christopher, he always told me I was a strong person. I had moved to Montana by myself. I knew no one upon my arrival, but I was ready to start my life and to make this new place my home. He admired that in me.My 22-year-old self would say I was strong, and the current me wouldn’t deny it for a second that I possess a fierce quality of strength and courage. There was a time in between where I didn’t always feel strong. It was February 2016. I had been living with Christopher for 11 months. I remember going through my to-do list for the evening in my head as I walked down the stairs. I bumped into Christopher, who was walking upstairs to shower after work. With a beer in hand, he said to me, “You know, when we first started dating, you were so strong, so independent. What happened to that version of you?”He staggered into the bathroom, but I collapsed. Tears poured down my face, because I knew he was right. While he wanted the strong, independent version of me, it was him who created this weak shell of a person I had become. I had become reserved, obedient, dependent, weak, and fearful. That moment, something in me switched. I had been denying the abuse. He opened my eyes for me, and I saw things about him and me and our relationship that made me grieve for myself. He knew something was different though.The next day, Christopher hit me for the first time. I don’t remember this day well as I’ve tried to repress it from my mind. I’ve had to retell it to cops and judges many times since, but I always seem to remember it a different way. I learned that the brain tries to forget trauma as a means of healing. My brain doesn’t want me to remember, because my brain is protecting me from my own memories. I was upstairs in our bedroom folding laundry. Christopher was downstairs watching the last half of the Saints game. They weren’t having a good season. It was only the morning game, but he was already drunk. I didn’t even hear him come upstairs. When he reached our bedroom, he slammed the door shut and grabbed me from behind. He threw me on the bed face first. My pile of laundry suffocated me. He undressed me and tied my hands together with the belt he had been wearing. He shoved my head back into the bed so my cries for help were muffled. I was afraid for my life. Was he planning on killing me or just scaring me? This was more manipulation from him, but how far would it go? He hadn’t ever laid a finger on me before. But I wasn’t surprised by this. There were times when I had instinctively flinched when he had raised a hand toward me. He always called me out: “Why are you flinching? You know I have never laid a hand on you.”

He kept hitting me over and over, all over the backside of my body from my thighs up to my shoulder blades. I kept crying for him to stop.  What seemed like eternity lasted only 15 minutes. I couldn’t breathe at times, and because I felt dizzy and lightheaded, I decided to give up. I thought he was going to kill me.

But today, he made up for it. He kept hitting me over and over, all over the backside of my body from my thighs up to my shoulder blades. I kept crying for him to stop. What seemed like eternity lasted only 15 minutes. I couldn’t breathe at times, and because I felt dizzy and lightheaded, I decided to give up. I thought he was going to kill me. I stopped thrashing around. My hands stopped trying to get free from the belt’s hold. My feet stopped kicking at him. And I no longer screamed for him to stop. His weight came off of my body. “Well this isn’t fun anymore,” he said as he got up and walked into the bathroom to shower. We never talked about that moment. I was too afraid that he would deny all of it. After that, I wore my bruises proudly. He was smart enough to hit me in areas that would be covered by my winter clothing, but that day, my heart hardened. I was no longer oblivious to the abuse. Every day after, I started planning my escape from him. I held my head a little higher when I walked. He sensed that my attitude had changed, but it didn't matter. I was no longer afraid or intimidated by him. I became harsh and resilient, just like Montana. She was my new role model. It was the heart of winter, after all, and Christopher and I were going to experience a blizzard.