@knix23 and @atalanta98 share an abuser. This post is from when @knix23 testified at @atalanta98's order of protection hearing.
The two survivors wrote a joint post on what that day felt like for them.

I. Knix23's Perspective

I took my seat. Focused on the white wall. Then it started. I’d used up all my strength. My muscles were reacting. Starting at my fingertips. Coursing down to my toes. Little, tiny trembles. My flesh was shuddering. My heart drumming. My insides were shaking.

I quickly sat my thighs down on my hands. This needed to stop. I couldn’t lose it now. I had just done so well. They couldn’t see me like this: all my energy burned up, my body violently trying to save itself.

I was having an anxiety attack.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. My mind was a flurry. My ears refused to hear her testimony in the background. A blur blocked everyone and everything from my vision but those white walls. I closed my eyes. A flood of cold air hit my tongue, and, in a second, I could feel my lungs collapse. Do that again three more times, my mind commanded. Plant your feet on the ground; don’t let them shake! My hands glistened. Was I that nervous? Yes, yes, I am that nervous. I opened my eyes.

There he was. Eyes with a hidden fire of darkness. Black pits holding decades of secrets. Sunken and sad, but full of demons.

My abuser.

But I was ok. At least I was. Before my anxiety attack, I had just walked away from the witness stand, testifying for his newest victim. I was in her seat, nearly three years earlier, trying my best to be the picturesque example of a plaintiff even though I was the one defending my safety and my reputation.

Luckily for me, all eyes weren’t on me this time. And lucky for her, during my testimony, I remained composed. I didn’t cry. My eyes didn’t even water. I looked that man—or rather, that sorry excuse for a man—right in those reticent eyes of his. I was seen on that stand exactly how I wanted to be seen: as a strong woman. Though I would’ve preferred if I could’ve just been a woman on that stand—a woman who can display an emotion other than courage and still be believed. But I knew, even before my feet hit the stand, that strength would be my only asset in that courtroom.

I was seen on that stand exactly how I wanted to be seen: as a strong woman.

And so when I thanked the judge and made my way back to my seat, I could feel every fiber of strength that I had left shaking its way out, trying to leave my body. As if courage wanted nothing more with my soul and needed to course away like a powerful river and find someone new to possess.

My role here was done. That courage I so desperately needed found its way to her—that girl sitting in front of the judge now, who was hoping for a better outcome than I had years ago. I looked up and blinked away a tear.

We were going to win.

II. Atalanta's Perspective

I walked into the courtroom, hands shaking. I tried to remember the breathing exercises I had practiced with my advocate moments earlier. I looked over my shoulder and saw my friends and family sitting behind me, silently supporting me. 

I felt the hair on my neck stand up, a cold presence entering the room. My abuser. Cold eyes, wearing the suit I had bought him for our wedding, a slap in the face I knew he had planned. Breathe, I reminded myself. I looked down at my hands, no longer shaking. He had no power over me; I was strong, and I finally believed myself.

He had no power over me; I was strong, and I finally believed myself.

The judge asked me to call my witness—I was still in awe that she had agreed to testify for me. The strength she had to face our abuser again in court was unbelievable. She took the stand and answered all of my questions with grace and power. After her testimony, I knew I would be granted the order of protection. The truth she had shared was heartbreaking, and he hadn't denied a single word she had said. 

Now it was my turn the share my truth. I took a deep breath, and, for the first time, shared my truth, shared every detail of the abuse I had suffered through for the past three years—the time he had shot a gun at me, the hitting, the words. 

I could feel his stare on me but I refused to look his way, instead, I focused on my words.