In Memory of Miss Vee

Just recently, Sean “P. Diddy” Combs, by a jury of eight men and four women, was convicted on two of the five charges he was accused of. The charges he was acquitted of—which I find most disturbing—were counts two and four: Sex trafficking by force, fraud, or coercion. It is here that I’ll begin.

First and foremost, human trafficking is a hidden crisis in America. Its Victims are often lured through false promises of work, love, or safety—and then controlled through violence, manipulation, or threats. It often looks like a relationship, job offers, or a way out of poverty—until it’s too late. What we’ve seen in the Diddy case isn’t just about one man—it’s a reflection of a broader culture that normalizes abuse and silences survivors.

With regards to the outcome of this specific case, it’s obvious that the State of New York simply failed to prove its argument beyond a reasonable doubt. However, if that’s not the case, the more unsettling conclusion is that we live in a world where cognitive distortion runs rampant. In this world of dichotomous thinking, two things cannot be true at once. As it pertains to the domestic violence and sexual abuse exposed in the celebrity case, a woman cannot both fear a man and stay with him—or so they say.

As a Mental Health Counselor, I once worked with a young woman coping with PTSD after being in a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. During her time with this individual, she developed an eating disorder, was violently raped, and endured daily verbal abuse. Her eating disorder stemmed from her boyfriend’s constant insults about her weight. At the time, she wore a size 10. By the end of the relationship, she was down to a size 6. One of our initial goals in therapy was to wean her off diet pills. When we met, she had already moved two states away, yet she still walked through her new city with the paranoia and constant fear that he might find her.

When I was a very young girl, my mother had a best friend that I lovingly called “Miss Vee.” Miss Vee dated a man who was a police officer in her neighborhood precinct—a man who was abusive. One Saturday morning, she called our house, whispering. My mother was next door having her Saturday morning coffee session with our neighbor. I ran to get her. Shortly after, we were on our way to Miss Vee’s home. She had spent the night hiding in a closet while her boyfriend attempted to break in through an upstairs window.

Let us now consider power and privilege. Miss Vee couldn’t call the police. Why? Because it would’ve been her boyfriend’s colleagues—other officers—who showed up. How exactly would that have gone? Who would have been believed? Would he have been arrested? The answer is “No.” There was the Blue Wall of Silence—impenetrable and unshakable. Cops won’t snitch on other cops. Nonetheless, what typically followed these incidents was the love bombing: the countless pleas for forgiveness, the gifts, the declarations of love, and the promises that it would never happen again. Of course, until the next time. Wash, rinse, spin, and repeat. The black eyes, bruises, and emotional scars persisted because she truly believed she was trapped—that there was no escaping him.

By now, most of us have seen the viral video of Cassie Ventura being kicked and dragged by her hair by Sean Combs. Yet the criminalization continues to fall upon the woman—and the judgment begins, often with: “She should have left.” “She stayed for the money and fame.” “She was a willing partner.” “This could never happen to me.” Cassie’s attempt to escape was clear—we all saw it. And just as clearly, we witnessed her being chased down and violently dragged back into that hotel room.

Too many people with no background in psychology make loud, harmful judgments about survivors. If you don’t understand the impact of power, control, coercion, fear conditioning, or trauma bonding—if you don’t understand emotional abuse, isolation, psychological manipulation, or financial control, and how they tear a person apart from the inside out—maybe you shouldn’t be the loudest voice in the room. Also seemingly overlooked was the fact that Cassie was just 20 years old—a time when the frontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for impulse control, judgment, and emotional regulation, is still not fully developed. This isn’t a minor detail—it’s a crucial reminder that she was still neurologically and emotionally vulnerable, making her even more susceptible to grooming, control, and coercion.

As it pertains to a psychological manipulation and a specific mental health diagnosis, perhaps Cassie and Miss Vee were experiencing Stockholm Syndrome. Stockholm syndrome is when someone who’s been abused, kidnapped, or held captive begins to feel emotionally attached to the person hurting them—even defending or protecting them. It’s not love. It’s a survival response. The brain tries to create a sense of safety or connection with the abuser to avoid further harm. Over time, the victim may feel sympathy, loyalty, or even gratitude toward the abuser—especially when they show small acts of kindness after causing pain. It’s not a weakness. It’s a trauma response. And it’s far more common in situations of domestic violence than most people realize. 

Maybe instead of speculating, we should be quiet and learn. Survivors don’t need your skepticism. They need safety. And the last thing they need is someone mistaking their ignorance for insight. Abuse is always a choice—the abuser’s choice. Her clothes, her tone, her professional goals, her boundaries, or the fact that his dinner wasn’t hot on the table didn’t provoke it.

Watching this trial made it painfully clear that we live in a culture where survivors are interrogated like criminals, while abusers are handed a second chance. We dismiss the abuse and reduce all women to “gold diggers.” We ask survivors why they stayed, why they didn’t scream louder, why they didn’t leave sooner. But we rarely ask abusers why they chose to harm someone who loved them. Instead, we hand them a slap on the wrist and a redemption arc. And then we have the audacity to wonder why women don’t go to the police.

Maybe they don’t leave because they already know what happens. They know that a restraining order doesn’t stop a bullet. That those pieces of paper don’t guarantee safety. That far too many women are killed with those orders still in hand. As a therapist, I’ve seen just how long it takes for survivors to process and free themselves from the guilt they were never meant to carry.

Hopelessness and desperation. Across the U.S., about one in three women serving time for homicide were convicted of killing a current or former intimate partner (source: Prison Policy Initiative). According to the ACLU, up to 90% of incarcerated women who killed men had previously been abused by them. Their incarceration doesn’t tell us about their danger—it tells us about their desperation. It tells us that society still can’t accept that two things can be true: someone can be abused and still stay.

Miss Vee and my client’s boyfriends weren’t rich. They didn’t have teams or empires behind them. And yet, their abusers wielded manipulation and fear like weapons—crafting silence, shame, and control. Fear made a woman hide in her own closet. Fear made another watch her back two states away. Fear convinces women that leaving isn’t safety—it’s escalation. So, if this is the dynamic without wealth and power, we must ask: What did Cassie’s fear look like? What does fear feel like when your abuser has endless money, powerful connections, and the ability to make problems disappear?

In the United States, 75% of incarcerated women report having experienced domestic violence at the hands of an intimate partner. That statistic doesn’t just expose a pattern—it indicates a flawed system. We owe my client, Miss Vee, Cassie and the countless women, our mothers, sisters, daughters who have lost their lives, suffered in silence, or are incarcerated for protecting themselves a tremendous apology for our failure to protect them. Moreover, we owe them safety without judgment and justice. 

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, help is available. Call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE) or text “START” to 88788. Free, confidential support is available 24/7 in over 200 languages. You are not alone. You are not to blame. And there is a way forward.