I remember the pressure first—the hands, the weight, the panic rising so fast I couldn’t breathe. I tried to pull away, but I couldn’t move enough. My vision started to narrow, edges fading to black. I clawed at his hands, tried to make noise, but everything was muffled. I could feel my body going limp, my thoughts slowing down as darkness closed in. I don’t remember how long I was out. When I woke up, I was lying on the floor, my throat aching, my body trembling. The room was quiet except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. I tried to sit up, but my head spun. I reached for my phone, hands shaking, and managed to call for help. Somehow, a neighbor heard me and came in. I couldn’t speak at first; my throat was too sore. I just pointed, tears streaming down my face. They called 911. The paramedics asked questions, but I could barely answer. All I could think was that I had to keep breathing, that I had to stay awake. At the hospital, they told me I had been strangled. They checked me over, asked if I wanted to talk to someone. I nodded. A counselor came in, gentle and patient, and told me I was safe now. I cried, finally letting the fear out.