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Friday 27 March 2026 22:45:37 GMT

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Jovca Stanojevic :

3 broja veci nosis

2026-04-02 16:26:02

4

user042922 :

好可爱

2026-04-03 02:25:57

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kain saracross :

marry me

2026-03-28 03:26:47

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Dony :

😁🥰👀

2026-03-28 09:54:39

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boza :

🥰🥰

2026-05-14 11:16:08

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C98⚡🌙 :

You have Blue Page

2026-09-09 13:57:43

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🎧🎭Kelly black63🎭🎧 :

WTTF

2026-07-29 20:57:02

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2026-08-10 04:14:37

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2026-03-28 04:20:13

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💙

2026-04-02 03:25:36

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2026-04-30 11:45:00

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2026-04-17 00:51:13

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2026-08-12 19:37:26

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Initially, I was too scared to report him. I was already posting on social media every day, so I felt like I needed to come up with a cover story. Because what else was I supposed to do? I was stuck in another country, with nobody to turn to other than the police. I was searching for women’s shelters on the Gold Coast with my boyfriend sitting next to me in bed. I was heavily medicated on painkillers I already had from my wrist surgery, but every day that week just got worse. Eventually, I ended up in hospital. But I needed a cover story because he used to work there. I had no idea what would happen if I told the truth, and I was too terrified to find out. I could barely use my right hand. Now my left side was hurting too. I couldn’t even imagine getting my luggage down the stairs of his house by myself, let alone figuring out how to get home. And yes, I’m sure there are people who will say I should have reported him at the time. Maybe things would have worked out differently if I had. But I was terrified that he would kill me if I told anyone what had happened. It wasn’t until I got back to New Zealand and started coming off the heavy painkillers that I began to understand just how close I might have come to dying. He had actually said it to me before. “I could fucking kill you if I wanted to, bitch.” I just never took it seriously. So ladies, if you’re with a man who jokes about being able to kill you, please don’t automatically dismiss it as a joke. This man had told me about his capacity for violence many, many times. I repeatedly brushed it off, laughed it away or found another explanation for it. Then he nearly killed me. I don’t think we talk enough about how easily threats can become normalised inside a relationship. How you can hear something alarming, feel uncomfortable for a moment, and then convince yourself you’re overreacting because you love the person saying it. I don’t do that anymore. One joke about killing anyone, one threat, one wrong move, one hint of aggression or even just a misogynistic joke and I’m out the fucking door STAT. And that’s a difficult thing to reconcile because I’m a lover girl. I would genuinely like to find love again. But men give me panic attacks now. I look at a man and sometimes wonder whether he’s ever put his hands around a woman’s neck. I look at his shoulders and wonder whether he could crush my ribs. I look into his eyes and find myself searching for the blackness I remember seeing in my ex. I hate that this is what my brain does now. I hate that someone else’s violence has fundamentally changed the way I experience the world and the people in it. And perhaps that’s something worth remembering when we talk about the consequences of reporting abuse. We spend so much time worrying about what reporting might do to a man’s reputation, career, relationships or future. But what about the consequences for the woman? What about the loss of safety, the loss of trust, the hypervigilance, the fear of intimacy, and the experience of looking at an ordinary interaction and wondering whether you’re in danger? Reporting an abuser might have consequences for his life. But I don’t think any punishment could adequately account for what it costs a woman to have her trust in the world taken away.

Initially, I was too scared to report him. I was already posting on social media every day, so I felt like I needed to come up with a cover story. Because what else was I supposed to do? I was stuck in another country, with nobody to turn to other than the police. I was searching for women’s shelters on the Gold Coast with my boyfriend sitting next to me in bed. I was heavily medicated on painkillers I already had from my wrist surgery, but every day that week just got worse. Eventually, I ended up in hospital. But I needed a cover story because he used to work there. I had no idea what would happen if I told the truth, and I was too terrified to find out. I could barely use my right hand. Now my left side was hurting too. I couldn’t even imagine getting my luggage down the stairs of his house by myself, let alone figuring out how to get home. And yes, I’m sure there are people who will say I should have reported him at the time. Maybe things would have worked out differently if I had. But I was terrified that he would kill me if I told anyone what had happened. It wasn’t until I got back to New Zealand and started coming off the heavy painkillers that I began to understand just how close I might have come to dying. He had actually said it to me before. “I could fucking kill you if I wanted to, bitch.” I just never took it seriously. So ladies, if you’re with a man who jokes about being able to kill you, please don’t automatically dismiss it as a joke. This man had told me about his capacity for violence many, many times. I repeatedly brushed it off, laughed it away or found another explanation for it. Then he nearly killed me. I don’t think we talk enough about how easily threats can become normalised inside a relationship. How you can hear something alarming, feel uncomfortable for a moment, and then convince yourself you’re overreacting because you love the person saying it. I don’t do that anymore. One joke about killing anyone, one threat, one wrong move, one hint of aggression or even just a misogynistic joke and I’m out the fucking door STAT. And that’s a difficult thing to reconcile because I’m a lover girl. I would genuinely like to find love again. But men give me panic attacks now. I look at a man and sometimes wonder whether he’s ever put his hands around a woman’s neck. I look at his shoulders and wonder whether he could crush my ribs. I look into his eyes and find myself searching for the blackness I remember seeing in my ex. I hate that this is what my brain does now. I hate that someone else’s violence has fundamentally changed the way I experience the world and the people in it. And perhaps that’s something worth remembering when we talk about the consequences of reporting abuse. We spend so much time worrying about what reporting might do to a man’s reputation, career, relationships or future. But what about the consequences for the woman? What about the loss of safety, the loss of trust, the hypervigilance, the fear of intimacy, and the experience of looking at an ordinary interaction and wondering whether you’re in danger? Reporting an abuser might have consequences for his life. But I don’t think any punishment could adequately account for what it costs a woman to have her trust in the world taken away.

Ayuda con la caida del cabello por la edad y cambios hormonales @MaryRuth's #caidadecabello #menopausia #suplemento #tiktokshop #creatorsearchinsights

Ayuda con la caida del cabello por la edad y cambios hormonales @MaryRuth's #caidadecabello #menopausia #suplemento #tiktokshop #creatorsearchinsights

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