I am a refugee, but I did not come from a war-torn country. I fled from Midcoast Maine. I can hear Portlanders laughing at that, but the reason I escaped was no laughing matter. On Sept. 13, 2015, I was, as defined by Maine law, subjected to gross sexual assault and forcible rape at the hands of my heartless ex-boyfriend. He was a cocaine addict and an alcoholic.

He was the one I loved, in spite of his addictions. I would go running to him at the drop of a hat. He called me his angel at night, and a stupid, naïve little girl by day. He preyed on my innocence, my having grown up in a Christian family. He was verbally abusive and mentally and emotionally trying. But I stayed because love is a powerful endorphin. I always felt that those moments and days when he was happy and high were actually good — until he would hit the downward spiral and treat me horribly. But I was too dark-skinned for anyone to see the scars I was secretly inflicting.

The night he assaulted me is burned into my memory. I see the six-pack of Coronas on the kitchen island; the living room light and TV on, as usual; his bedroom light on; the entire town around us asleep by 11 p.m. Supposedly he called me to his house to talk. He drunkenly shuffled to his room and laid on his bed like a useless slob. Anger started welling inside me, but I gave myself a pep talk: don’t piss off a pissed man. I stood there staring at him until he motioned me to the opposite side of the bed. My back was turned to him and nothing happened for a while. Then it all came crashing down.

He stayed completely dressed except to violate me with the only part that mattered to him. He divested me of my clothes and restrained me with his superhuman arms and legs. I still wake up in the middle of the night from the horrors that followed. I was too afraid to speak and my lungs couldn’t force a scream. My mind paralyzed my entire being. I folded into a deep part of myself and willed the night away.

Five days later, I reported him, only because my mom told me to do so. She told me to stop making excuses for him, it wasn’t my duty to protect him. I spent the next two years trying to commit suicide. I believed no man would want damaged goods. All manner of trust in men has been shattered and I would be the first to tell you that I don’t believe in love. I bear over 6,000 scars on my person due to The Rapist alone.

Four months later, after the failed justice, I was taken by a police officer to a psyche ward because I admitted to planning on murdering The Rapist. They let me out with pills that made it easier to suppress all emotion. I felt nothing — no pain, heat, cold, hunger, depression — absolutely nothing. But instead of carrying out homicide, I defaulted to overdosing and ended up hospitalized and taken off the medication.

I moved 30 minutes away from him, but he had a car and I was on foot. He saw me too often by chance.

I fled to Portland over a year ago and don’t ever want to go back. This city has been the balm I needed to restart my life in a positive way. The love and acceptance many have shown me has been overwhelming. I no longer fear stepping outside my door should The Rapist drive by me. I can walk to my job without him following me. I can unlock my apartment doors without worry. The fear of living every day has vanished to the point where I am stable. Even if he is walking free, I am free. Even without justice, I have the ability to restart my life and get the therapy needed to survive.

To the survivors: We will overcome and we will be stronger than our trauma.

Thank you, Portland, for saving my life, because I should be dead already.

Mainer granted the author anonymity as a survivor of sexual assault. Sexual Assault Response Services of Southern Maine provides free services to anyone affected by sexual assault, harassment or abuse. You can call or text SARSSM at (800) 871-7741 or visit sarsonline.org.