When the man who exploited me for years made his final demand, I didn’t doubt that he meant it. After I’d spent years as his victim, my sex trafficker told me that my unexpected pregnancy could end one of three ways: abortion, my own death, or fleeing everything I knew.
I’d been groomed, raped, and abused throughout my childhood, and at 18 I turned to prostitution because I was homeless and needed a place to stay. I was raped by three men, one of whom became my trafficker. He took me to a different city, put me on the sidewalk by the truck stops, and gave me a quota to make by a certain time each day if I wanted to stay out of trouble.
My days were filled with verbal and sexual abuse, physical and emotional torture, death threats and prostitution. Basic needs like sleep, breaks, and relationships were denied to me and used as bargaining chips for my compliance. Every day, I strove to make enough money to avoid death threats or abuse, and I fearfully submitted to all my traffickers’ commands, never dreaming I could leave.
But I wanted my son to live. So I fled across America, hoping for a new life.
I knew there were shelters and centers meant to help desperate women, but all I found was closed doors. Nearly 30 domestic violence shelters across several states refused to help me because my situation was “too severe.” Finally, one shelter offered to help me, and connected me with a local New Hampshire pregnancy center.
