Part One

It All Started with Cleveland QLD CIB.
Then it was Redcliffe Police — they arrested me.
Now it’s Yeppoon QLD Police.
None of them have listened. Not one.
Not a word heard. Not a question asked.
No conversation. No explanation.
Just silence — and power.

Prologue

 

“Every night I check the clock. By 5 p.m. I must be home, locked in. By midnight I expect the pounding at the door. By morning, I drag myself out of bed, exhausted, knowing I’ll sign my name again at the station like a criminal. Except I’m not. I’m a survivor. And this is the story of how the system made me live like the man who broke me.”

 

Chapter One: July 6th – The Call

The phone felt heavier in my hand than it should have. I stared at the numbers, thumb hovering, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. One call. That’s all I needed to make. Just ask for a welfare check.

 

My body was trembling, my skin clammy. I felt sick, drugged, and fogged. But I knew if I didn’t make that call, I wasn’t going to survive the night.

 

When the police finally came, I felt a rush of relief. For a moment, I thought: This is it. This is my rescue.

 

But the moment they stepped inside, everything shifted. Their eyes didn’t land on me with concern. They scanned the room, taking in the wreckage Jason had turned my home into — the drugs, the weapons, the filth, the chaos.

 

“This is a crime scene,” one of them said flatly.

 

And they were right. It was. But it wasn’t my crime scene. I wasn’t the one who brought these things into my life. I wasn’t the one using, selling, or stashing. I was the one who had called them for help.

 

But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

 

The relief drained from me as quickly as it came. Their glances, their clipped tones, the way they began bagging things, photographing, muttering between themselves — it all made one thing clear: I wasn’t seen as a victim. I was seen as part of the mess.

 

I wasn’t asked if I was okay.

I wasn’t asked what had happened.

I wasn’t asked anything.

 

I was absorbed into the chaos. Another tick on their charge sheet.

 

Chapter Two: Silence

The days after the raid blurred together. I waited for a call. I expected someone from the police to reach out — to ask questions, to let me explain. But the silence was deafening.

 

Weapons were still left in the house. A gun sat there, untouched, like a loaded threat waiting to be used. I wanted it gone. I wanted them to take it. There were still drugs left there too, and I was terrified of being connected to them. Terrified of being blamed.

 

I called. I texted. I pleaded. Nothing.

 

In the end, I threw the drugs away myself. Not because I had ever touched them, but because no one else was coming to clean up the danger.

 

I wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t running. I was doing their job for them — and still, they ignored me.

 

Weeks later, finally, a text buzzed on my phone. “Hey, meet me tomorrow,” it read. Detective Rylan.

 

I felt a flicker of hope. Finally, someone was going to listen. I rehearsed what I would say, repeatedly, in my head. When I pulled into the station the next day, my heart was racing.

 

Then my phone buzzed again. One word: Cancelled.

 

I stared at the screen, the hope draining out of me.

 

I typed back immediately: “I’m available any time. Please contact me.”

 

I waited. Nothing.

 

The silence returned, louder than before.

Chapter Three: Five Days of Hell

It started with a door that wouldn’t open. Jason stood in front of it, his voice sharp, his eyes glassy from the drugs.

 

“You’re not leaving.”

 

And I knew he meant it.

 

Five days. That’s how long I was trapped there, held hostage by the man who had already destroyed so much of me.

 

Every day was a performance. I had to smile when I wanted to scream. I had to stroke his arm when I wanted to claw my way free. I had to say “I love you” when what I really felt was hate, fear, and disgust.

 

Because if I didn’t play the part, he would explode.

 

He was in a psychotic haze, fists flying, paranoia raging. He raped me. He hit me. He broke me down over and over, while people nearby heard and did nothing.

 

At night, I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling his breath on my neck, waiting for the next blow, the next violation.

 

Every morning, I reached out again. I sent messages. I made calls. I begged the police for help. And every day, the silence answered me back.

 

The fifth morning, I woke up groggy, drugged. Jason was on top of me, zip ties in his hands, trying to bind my legs. My body jolted with terror. For a moment, I thought: This is it. This is how I die.

 

Then he left for the shower.

 

Something inside me snapped awake. This was my only chance.

 

I ran.

 

No shoes. No underwear. Just shorts and a singlet. My legs shaky, my feet cut on rocks and branches, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst. I tore through the bush until I found the road.

 

And then I sat. For five hours. In the cold, in the dirt, shivering, waiting for the police who never came.

 

Headlights passed, but none stopped. My calls went unanswered. Again.

 

Until finally, a stranger pulled over. A woman I’ll never forget. She took one look at me — barefoot, shaking, broken — and without hesitation, drove me to town.

 

For the first time in weeks, I felt safe.

 

That night, I was placed in a domestic violence hotel. Clean sheets. A locked door. One night of peace. One night where I could finally breathe.

 

The next morning, everything collapsed again.

 

Chapter Four: Arrest

They came for me.

 

Not to protect me. Not to listen. Not to acknowledge what I’d survived.

 

To arrest me.

 

Eleven charges. Drugs. Weapons. Alcohol. Guns. Eleven charges for the very crime scene I had begged them to clear.

 

Handcuffs clamped around my wrists. My stomach dropped. My body still ached from what Jason had done to me, and now I was being marched away like I was the danger.

 

That night, I sat in a watch house cell. The fluorescent lights buzzed. The concrete walls pressed in on me. I curled up on the thin mattress, sore, bruised, terrified. My mind replayed everything — the assaults, the escape, the stranger’s kindness, and now this.

 

I had called them for help.

And I ended up here.

Chapter Five: Bail

The word “bail” was supposed to mean release. To me, it meant another prison.

 

When the officer read out my conditions, I felt each one like a chain being tightened.

 

“You are to be at your residence by 5 p.m. every day.”

“You may not leave before 9 a.m.”

“You will report to the police station three times per week.”

“You are not to leave the state. You will not apply for a passport.”

 

I nodded, numb, though inside I wanted to scream. They didn’t see who I was. They saw the charges written on a page and assumed they matched me.

 

At first, I thought maybe I could manage it. Get home by five, leave after nine. Sign my name, get it over with. But the reality hit quickly.

 

By 4:30 p.m., I would be watching the clock like a prisoner waiting for lock-in. The freedom of an ordinary evening — a walk, dinner with a friend, even a simple late-night drive to clear my mind — gone. I had to shut myself in, cut off from the world, while everyone else lived their lives.

 

Mornings were no kinder. Sometimes work called early, sometimes life required me out of the house before nine. But the rule was the rule. My life bent around it, not the other way.

 

And the reporting — three days a week, walking into the station, standing in line, signing my name like it proved something about who I was. The looks, the unspoken assumptions, the heavy silence of being treated like a criminal. Every signature felt like a brand pressed into my skin: You are not trusted. You are not believed.

 

Some nights, I couldn’t sleep for fear of missing their knock. Midnight, 2 a.m., 3 a.m. — the police showing up, shining torches, pounding on the door. If I didn’t answer, if I was too deep in sleep, if I missed a call from a private number I couldn’t call back, I risked being breached. Breached for being home. Breached for doing nothing wrong.

 

More than once, I dragged a blanket to the car and parked at the front gate, sleeping there so they could see me and not mark me absent. The cold seeped into my bones, but it felt safer than the risk of being accused again.

 

On paper, I was on bail. In reality, I was back in captivity. Different captor. Different cage. Same feeling: hostage.

 

 

Chapter Six: Today – Living Unheard

Now, even after months, I am still living with fear curled around my spine.

 

I wake up each day with the memory of Jason still inside me — not just the physical assaults, but the psychological prison of having to pretend I loved him while he broke me down. My body is healing, but it hasn’t forgotten. My mind jolts awake at night, flashing back to zip ties, fists, his voice dripping with control.

 

Healing should be what I focus on. But instead, every morning begins with the same dread: How do I prove I’m not guilty of something I never did?

 

It is a constant double wound — recovering from domestic violence while fighting charges that don’t belong to me. Some days I feel like I’m drowning in both.

 

The hardest part isn’t just the curfew, the restrictions, or even the exhaustion. It’s the silence. The fact that the police never truly wanted to speak to me. That they never let me explain. That every message, every plea I sent, went unanswered.

 

I wasn’t heard then. I’m not heard now.

 

Detective Ryland had a chance. He could have picked up the phone. He could have listened. He could have done his job. But he didn’t. And because of that silence, I was left to suffer — first at Jason’s hands, then at the system’s.

 

So here I am: not free, not protected, not seen. Still marked as “co-accused.” Still forced to live under suspicion. Still terrified of a future I don’t deserve.

 

I am not a drug user. I am not a weapons person. I am not the criminal they’ve made me out to be.

 

I am the one who called first. I am the one who begged for help. I am the one who survived.

 

But today, I live like a prisoner. Not in a cell with bars, but inside invisible walls of fear, silence, and suspicion.

 

And still, I wait to be heard.

 

 

Chapter Seven

Update: Living in the Middle of It

Published on 30 August 2025 at 20:56

It’s been weeks since everything changed, and I’m still here, still trying to put words around it. Some days I feel like I’m moving forward, other days I feel like I’m trapped all over again.

I wake up every morning exhausted, not from sleep, but from the weight of living under bail conditions that don’t match the person I am. I’m home by 5 p.m. every day, locked into a routine that feels more like punishment than protection. I can’t leave before 9 a.m. I report to the station three times a week, as if that signature proves anything about me.

And yet, in all of this, the hardest part isn’t the curfew or the restrictions — it’s the silence. It’s knowing I reached out for help over and over and was left unheard. It’s knowing that my story was rewritten without my voice in it.

I’m still recovering from what was done to me. My body, my mind, my spirit — all of it is still healing. But healing doesn’t come easy when you’re treated like a criminal instead of a survivor.

Still, I write. Still, I speak. Still, I remind myself that I’m here. I survived.

This blog is my place to keep updating, to keep speaking, even when it feels like no one’s listening. Because my story matters. Because I matter.

Chapter Eight

 

Today I woke up with the same heavy weight I’ve been carrying for months — the kind of weight that settles into your bones when you realize you’ve been screaming into silence.

 

I am bitter. Not just at life, but at the way society works, or doesn’t work, when you really need it. They tell you to trust the system, to believe in justice, to reach out to the police if you’re in danger. But what happens when you do reach out and nothing happens? What happens when you’re treated like the criminal instead of the victim?

 

The truth is, being unheard breaks something inside of you. It makes you start to question whether your voice matters at all. I spoke, I begged, I asked for help, and the silence in return was deafening. Worse than silence — it was dismissal.

 

And so here I am: bitter. Bitter at the nights I lie awake waiting for police to “check” on me like I’m the problem. Bitter at the constant fear of being dragged down for crimes I didn’t commit, while my cries for protection go ignored. Bitter at the fact that when I say I am unwell, traumatized, or exhausted, it feels like no one cares.

 

I’ve lost my faith in society. I’ve lost my faith in police. The very people I was told to rely on have become another source of fear and stress in my life.

 

Maybe that makes me sound hopeless. Maybe it makes me sound angry. But that’s because I am. And it’s okay to admit that. Because this is my truth: I am bitter, I am unheard, and I no longer have faith in a system that never once showed me I mattered.

 

Chapter Nine: Exposed

They call it compliance.
I call it punishment.

Because I am on bail, the police insist that I live somewhere “more accessible.” Somewhere they can pull up at any hour of the night, knock at the door, and drag me out of bed to prove that I’m still here. Still obeying. Still silent.

So they push me into a place open to the public.
A place anyone can find.
A place where people connected to my co-accused — and even the man who committed heinous crimes against me — can reach me.

They say it’s about monitoring.
But what it really does is strip away safety.
It exposes me.

I am not allowed to stay with my family on a property that is harder to reach. A property that would have protected me. That would have let me breathe. That would have given me peace.

Instead, they’ve chosen convenience for themselves over safety for me.
Every late-night knock, every demand to prove I’m still here, drives home the truth:
This system does not care if I am safe.
It only cares if I am controlled.

This is not justice.
This is not accountability.
This is exposure, humiliation, and fear — dressed up as law.

Chapter Ten: Branded a Criminal

Monday: 01/09/2025 

Today, I walked into the police station to report.
It’s supposed to be a routine condition of bail — a box to tick, a line to sign.

But the moment I stepped through the door, the air changed.
Eyes on me.
Judgment before a word was spoken.
Every glance said the same thing: criminal.

I am not guilty of their accusations.
Yet here, I am treated as though the sentence has already been passed.
There is no presumption of innocence, no humanity, no care.

My chest tightened.
My stomach turned.
Anxiety clawed at me until I could hardly breathe.
The thoughts inside my head became ugly, twisted — telling me I am less, telling me I am what they think I am.

I nearly became physically sick standing there.
Not because of guilt.
Not because of shame.
But because of the weight of being branded something I am not.

This is what they do:
They don’t just accuse you.
They make you wear the accusation, every single day.
They make you live inside it, until you begin to believe their silence, their stares, their labels.

I left the station shaken, exhausted, broken down again.
I walked out, but the label stayed stuck to me.
Criminal.

Even without a conviction, they’ve made sure I’m already living the sentence.

Chapter Eleven: The Caravan

The caravan was supposed to be my dream. It wasn’t just a van to sleep in—it was freedom, family, adventures, fun, exploring. It was meant to carry laughter, road trips, campfires, mornings by the ocean, nights under the stars. It was supposed to mark the start of a new lifestyle, one filled with love, faith, and memories I could hold onto forever.

But that dream was taken from me.
Instead of excitement, I was forced into sadness. Instead of freedom, the caravan became a cage. I didn’t get the joy of those first nights with my dad, setting it up, celebrating what it meant. I didn’t get to breathe in that feeling of a new beginning.

Because the caravan wasn’t placed where I wanted it. It wasn’t parked at the start of an adventure. It was moved somewhere else—somewhere chosen for me. A place where the police could check I was home by 5pm. A place that stripped away the dream and replaced it with control, fear, and loneliness.

The caravan should have been my escape. Instead, it became another reminder of how trapped I am. What was meant to hold memories of laughter and freedom now holds tears and anxiety.

Still, deep down, I know what it truly represents: the life I was supposed to live. A life of family, faith, and adventure. And even though it hurts, I carry that vision in my heart. Because one day, I will live that dream—not on their terms, but on mine.

Chapter Twelve: The First Night Alone

Before, I had the gates. I had my family close. I had the comfort of knowing that even if the world outside was cruel, I wasn’t exposed to it—not completely. There was safety in numbers, in walls, in people who loved me.

Now, it’s different. Now, I am alone. Truly alone.
The walls around me don’t feel like protection—they feel thin, fragile, almost see-through. The night air feels colder without the gates holding it back, without the sounds of family nearby to remind me I wasn’t fighting this on my own.

I cry because I can’t stop myself. I cry because this silence isn’t peace—it’s fear. Every shadow looks sharper. Every sound feels dangerous. I am left open to a world I no longer trust, a world that has already taken too much from me.

It is unfair. It is cruel. And it is terrifying.

My family can’t wrap me in their arms tonight. My gates can’t keep danger away. I have never felt this unsafe, this exposed, this small.

My mind is unraveling with the quiet. My heart is breaking with the loneliness. And my strength—what little I had left—feels like it’s slipping away in the dark.

This is my first night alone, and it is unbearable.

Chapter Thirteen - Cynics and Doubters

Apparently, my words are “AI.” At least that’s what the cynical reader wants to think. They see me write my story and instantly assume it must be fabricated, generated, or false. But that assumption is wrong. These are my words. Words I’ve carried, shaped, and loved my entire life. Writing has always been a part of me, long before anyone ever questioned my voice.

What I put down on these pages are not stories dreamed up for entertainment or drama. They are the events as I remember them, the memories that scarred me, the moments that broke me. They are the pieces of truth I hold onto because they are mine. To dismiss them as artificial or false says far more about the person doing the doubting than it does about me.

Yes, the world is full of cynics. I know this well. The police didn’t believe me, and that alone should have been enough to crush me. Then there are friends and even family who look at me with the same skeptical eyes. That hurts, but it doesn’t surprise me anymore.

But here’s what I’ve learned: I don’t need their belief. I don’t need validation from those who doubt me. I need to believe in myself. I need to stand in my truth, no matter how many times I am told I don’t belong in it. The police may have broken me down once, but they won’t break me again.

I’m not writing this to impress anyone. I’m not here to gain applause or sympathy. I’m here to make sure my story is heard and known. If this were some fabricated, false account, I wouldn’t risk the consequences of telling it. I wouldn’t drag myself through the weight of reliving it.

So, if you’re reading this and questioning its authenticity, ask yourself why. Is it easier for you to dismiss my pain than to confront it? Is it safer for you to believe it’s a lie than to face the truth that this happens to people like me?

Your cynicism doesn’t change my truth. Your disbelief doesn’t erase what I’ve endured. I was there. I lived it. And I’m still here, standing tall, using my words. My story is mine—and no cynic will ever take that from me.

✨ Support the Cause ✨
Every piece in the Monsters for DV collection represents more than just art — it’s a voice for those who have felt silenced.

This project was born from my own survival story, a journey through domestic violence, fear, and rebuilding life from the ground up. Each monster is symbolic — not of fear itself, but of strength, resilience, and the fight to overcome what once tried to break us.

By collecting one of these NFTs, you’re not just supporting digital art. You’re directly supporting awareness and helping to create pathways for survivors. A portion of proceeds goes toward raising awareness and offering hope to those still trapped in the cycle of violence.

Together, we can shine a light in the darkness and show that survivors are not alone.

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