From the Void to the Light: My Journey Back to Life

By Renee Kasuboski For some, I might come off as too honest or too raw—but that honesty has been the bridge between my pain and someone else’s healing. I don’t share for attention. I share because I know the cost of silence, and I want others to know they are not alone. I spent 14 years in a marriage with a narcissistic sociopath. The last five years of it, I was slipping deeper into a dark mental space—a void so deep it blocked out all emotion, all reason, and all connection to reality. It was as if my soul had been paralyzed. In those moments, nothing mattered—not my kids, not my family, not even my own life. That terrifying void convinced me that I didn’t want to be here anymore. And yet… something in me kept fighting. Sometimes it was the fear of what would happen if I failed. Sometimes it was a voice in my head from long ago, yelling, “Don’t you DARE give up. Don’t you DARE quit on me.” That voice helped me claw my way up, covered in emotional mud, exhausted and broken—but still climbing. There were nights I drove home from work on quiet country roads, death whispering in every thought. I felt numb. I remember considering just letting go of the wheel and ending it. I tried to pray it away. Tried to logic it away. Nothing worked. When I told my then-husband—who was a preacher—what I was going through, his response was: “Stop being stupid.” After that, he banned me from church, from seeing friends, and nearly from going to work. He’d switch off the radio if I found a preacher that gave me hope and put on someone who screamed about obedience and hell. Or having the children gather around the table with everyone's Bible open, he read the passage about Judas betraying Jesus and then went around the table and told the children to 1 by 1 "tell mom what you don't like about her". I remember one day, after being screamed at, we went to the YMCA with our six kids. He wanted a happy family moment. I sat on the edge of the pool—frozen. I wasn’t there. Almost catatonic. I couldn’t smile. I couldn’t pretend. I started off in the distance looking at nothing at all. He yelled at me again for not being happy and supporting him and the children. I walked in the door the days I worked, wondering what I could have possibly done wrong today. After I finally left him, I’d come home from work and lie in the dark, my dog Sam laying on top of me, trying to keep me grounded. I’d be frozen again—mute, paralyzed, unable to move or even hum. Other nights were tears and feeling completely empty, even eating or having an appetite was a challenge. Yes, I’ve been there. I understand why people end their lives. I understand the daily war. I carry horrific memories—including rape—that still echo sometimes and plagues my thoughts. It’s been 11 years since I left. And yes, he still tries to mess with my head. But here’s what else is true: I am nowhere near the person I used to be. Do I still have moments of struggle? Absolutely. But I have more wins now. More joy. More days where I feel whole. Every year brings more healing. Every day is another shot at life, another shot to break out of the shell. I’m here today because every attempt—by him or by me—failed. And I’m grateful. I don't feel sorry for myself, I think of it as an opportunity to help others in the same situation and try to give them skills to dig out of their holes of despair. If you're reading this and you're in that dark place, please hear me: you are not alone. You are not broken. You are not beyond hope. There is another side to this pain, and it is worth fighting for. And if you're still climbing—I’m here. I see you. I believe in you. Please don’t give up. Text the HOPELINE™ at 741741 if you're struggling and need someone to chat with. Sometimes it's easier to text vs talk.