You are not alone.
You never were.

On October 29, 2018, Mila was killed by domestic violence. She never got to build what she dreamed of.

Kabalikat ni Mila is her dream, built by her family. We stand shoulder to shoulder — kabalikat — with every woman still inside what Mila could not escape.

What this site is

Information, at any hour, free, anonymous, no registration. A place to understand what is happening, find words for it, and think through what comes next.

What this site is not

It is not a hotline, not a shelter, not legal representation. It does not replace human help. It is a starting point — so you know what exists, what your rights are, and where to go next.

If you need more right now

If a number does not connect, call 911 or visit your nearest DSWD office.

Billow VG

Midwest USA  ·  Survivor

"To DV victims and survivors: WE ARE STRONGER THAN WE THINK."

Read her story →

CC

Philippines  ·  Survivor

"I am not perfectly healed. But hey, I am trying. Trying is always a good start."

Read her story →

It was so beautiful, my tears welled up when our Pan Am Jet crossed over the San Francisco Golden Bridge one lovely day in May more than four decades ago. The sun cast a golden glow on the bridge and the water looked so calm below. I cried, realizing I was truly away from home — away from my mother, my siblings in the Philippines, my friends, my everything.

Six years later, a similar flight would take place but this time, the heavy cross that I have been carrying unbeknownst to most was finally lifting off my shoulders. I had to be physically away to feel secure that whatever decision I would make, my family would be there to support me. I remember my sister telling me, "We would rather visit you in jail than to visit your grave."

I was young and away from my friends suddenly, so I gravitated to this one guy who spoke mildly and had a nice smile. We were the same age and I was missing the barkada camaraderie of my friends in Manila. Isolated from all that was familiar to me I dug myself into a hole from where I was not fully equipped to get out. We moved in together and decided to get married in Court, just like any 20 year old idiots would do three months after we met. Unbeknownst to me, I signed up to become a battered partner.

The abuse came suddenly — he did not like my make-up and gave me a backhanded slap in the car on the way to work. I was stunned. That same weekend, I was punched just because he got drunk. He apologized profusely later and I bought it line, hook, and sinker. Later the apologies would come with a trinket. Every violent session would end up in a make-up ring or earrings in the following days.

Then the abuse came more often. "You are stupid; just because you went to college does not mean anything." "Who the hell do you think you are, you are an immigrant with a lousy accent." "You amount to nothing, you are ugly."

I hid my bruises and he was careful not to hit me on the face. My female older coworkers knew better. Diane took me aside, "Hey Billow, where's the sparkle in your eye? Someone took 'em away from you?" I did not tell a soul because I was afraid I would be judged as a failure. However, my career path and my pursuit of education continued.

One evening, a fellow Filipino student saw me at the college dining hall. He slammed a soda can on the table to call my attention and said, "Hey Pinay, sinasampal ka ba?" I was horrified that even strangers could tell I was in a dark place. He offered me a ride home, dropped me off at the corner of the street. "Ingat ka Pinay, I have a wife and I treat her like a queen, you deserve the same thing."

One night, he woke me up, holding a can of something in his hand. He said, "Get up. Tonight is the night you are dying." I reached for the phone off the night table and struck him with it as hard as I could. I ran outside in my pajamas and drove to a safe place — my future sister-in-law's house. When my Ate Andrea saw me, she rushed me inside and said, "Itong batang ito…ano ang nangyari?" She gave me a key so I could flee at any day and at any time.

I ended up in an ER in Fairfax. The nurse said, "Who did this to you, baby girl, who did this to you?" "My husband," I meekly said. He was locked up that night. I posted his bail the next day. I was not yet able to set a threshold for when I would leave.

Finally, I was outed by my 5-year-old niece. She witnessed him holding a knife to my neck. After this episode, I plotted my escape. First the money. Then a plan. Then distance — thousands of miles away, in Manila, where I was safe enough to make the call.

I said: "I am fine. I told my family that you are abusing me. When I return to the US, I will not go back to you. I am leaving. You touch me, I'd fucking kill you." He said, "What did you say?" I said, "You heard me."

When I returned, he had emptied all our bank accounts. I had my secret account. I wanted my freedom and told him: "Keep everything you want, you can have it all in exchange for my freedom."

My brother went with me to the house, at this time empty. I slumped on the floor, sobbing like a child. He put his arms around me and said, "It is over, it is over patí." I said, "I wasted so many years of my life." He said, "That is part of your growing up and you will now be free to love yourself, patí." He carried me like a baby out of the house.

Two decades later, I became a mom to a wonderful smart young man. Then we met his dad — my husband of over 20 years. He treats me with respect. I went on to earn a degree in Legal Studies and a master's in Government Contracting. I fully retired in 2016.

Before I got married, I sought therapy to make sure I was emotionally and mentally ready. My therapist gave me a clean bill and a "good to go get married" type of approval.

Billow VG currently lives in the Midwest USA with her husband and their beloved cats.

"A"

"A" was my first boyfriend. I was 19, a second year Industrial Engineering student, and he was 8 years older than me. I was student council president at my university. At 19 I found his persistence romantic instead of predatory.

It had been weeks after we'd been dating when he told me he is married. He said he was only waiting for his son to become 7 years old so he could understand that his parents are separating. I believed him. By this time, his son was only 2 years old.

I stopped going to school a year after we were together. I started working as a layout artist for a sleazy tabloid that he told me to apply to. I moved out from home and stayed in the cheapest bed space rentals. He regularly brought me to the cheapest motels and I thought that was okay. I spent years not being able to afford a decent bed.

I was 23 when I had a miscarriage. I didn't even know I was pregnant. I sent him a text message but had to wait until the next day because he didn't think it was a thing of immediate concern. I was unhealthy, overworked, emotionally stressed. I had self-inflicted wounds on my legs and a failed suicidal attempt by taking paracetamols.

The next year, I found out from his friend that "A" had gotten his wife pregnant again. I was in the office. I cried for maybe two minutes. And then I broke up with him through chat.

When my father died, "A" showed up at the wake. He followed me home asking me to accept him back or else he would kill himself by getting run over by a car. I told him I didn't care. A few days later he showed up at my work, crying and begging. I told him not to come close because I didn't want to breathe the same air he does.

"P"

"P" is a drummer — one of the best in the country. We clicked instantly. I spent two years with him, went to his gigs, always excitedly taking photos. Two years of an unlabeled relationship, naively thinking we were exclusive.

When I wasn't busy working, I subconsciously craved company and intimacy. I became how "P" was — drinking, smoking, trying to fill an emotional void I didn't bother to address.

What I discovered about being with "P" is that I am not good with confrontations. I have a flight response. When he started talking loudly, I ended up saying sorry even if he was the one at fault. We didn't have closure. I just stopped replying to his calls and messages.

"D"

"D" asked me to stay overnight and I remember him asking me why I agreed. I told him I had seen him in my dream before. I thought it must be some kind of fate. Even when I was already feeling sad to be with him, I stayed because I was thinking I would just fix him before I let go.

He calls me miss, wakes me up in the morning to get him coffee from the store while he continues to sleep. He tells me to come over so I can buy him and his company pizza. He made me feel so little and unworthy that when he treated me badly, I actually felt I deserved it.

I found out I was pregnant. I told him and his response was "how could I do that to him knowing that he only has 500 pesos?" I terminated the pregnancy. I will not have any more of those horrors.

"B" and "C" — my parents

I came from a broken marriage. "B," my father, is an alcoholic who constantly depends on relatives. "C," my mother, is a narcissist and incapable of loving anyone but herself.

When I was five, my mother asked us what we wanted when she came home from Abu Dhabi. I childishly said I wanted a waterproofed robot so I don't have to wash the dishes. That night they had their usual fight. My mother said that if she could afford a robot, she would buy one to replace us all. Somehow I thought it was my fault that she went back.

The thing about not being cared-for as a child is you get to live your life embarrassed. Embarrassed bringing your lunch of egg and rice wrapped in banana leaves to school because you can't afford a proper lunchbox. Embarrassed that you can't understand English when your cousins speak it. Eventually my father sent me to live with my Tita and made a new family of his own.

I wasn't recreating my parents' relationship to correct it. I had a terrible childhood and terrible is all I knew how to react from. I shy away when a man treats me well because my emotions didn't know what to make of it. I was so used to feeling undeserving I didn't know it wasn't normal.

— CC