Me + Cassie = Survival Math
How much does freedom cost?
I wasn’t okay today…
Not after watching that TMZ video in full. Not after reading the courtroom updates. Not after hearing from someone I trust who was actually there, watching it all play out in real time. And definitely not after everything she had to relive on that stand yesterday.
I wanted to report on it so bad for you, for the people following this trial and trying to make sense of it all but I couldn’t. I physically couldn’t. The mental weight of what she described, the reality of what she lived through, it was too much. And then waking up this morning and seeing that video. Cassie’s body on the floor, Diddy wrapped in a towel, walking past her like she was nothing. I felt sick. Not metaphorically. I mean nauseous. Shaking. Hollow. I had to put my phone down and walk away. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t do it today.
This isn’t entertainment. This isn’t celebrity gossip. This is a pregnant woman walking into a courtroom to talk about being raped, drugged, trafficked, and dehumanized and having to do it while strangers question why she didn’t run. Why she stayed. Why she didn’t fight harder. As if survival looks the same for everyone.
And the worst part? She didn’t have to be there. She didn’t owe this testimony to anyone. But she still showed up. For the record. For the truth. For every girl who wasn’t believed.
I needed today to just... feel. To hold my daughter. To remember why I started following this trial in the first place. And to remind myself this isn’t about clicks. It’s about breaking cycles. Even when it hurts.
The Jury Breaks
Up until now, they’d been hard to read. Jurors aren’t supposed to react. That’s the rule. But Day 7 shattered the illusion of detachment.
Because it’s one thing to hear about the freak offs. It’s another to see them.
Still images. Frozen moments pulled from the tapes Cassie said were filmed without her full consent. Images of her with male escorts. Oiled, exposed, directed. Humiliated.
And the jury couldn’t hide it. One woman looked away and didn’t look back. A man in the back row shifted in his seat, crossed his arms like he needed to protect himself from what he was seeing. Another juror just sat there, locked in, mouth tight, eyes glassy.
This wasn’t music industry gossip anymore. This was real. It was visual. It was proof.
And in that moment, Diddy wasn’t a mogul. He wasn’t a brand. He was the man behind the camera. Watching. Controlling.
And the jury saw it.
At one point, prosecutors handed Cassie a set of images, thirteen faces, one by one. These were the escorts. The ones Diddy allegedly paid to join in the freak offs. Cassie didn’t know their names. She just remembered them. Every single one.
She said it wasn’t a few isolated nights. It happened “hundreds of times.”
She wasn’t exaggerating. She was surviving.
The court was shown stills from video recordings: Cassie, glistening with baby oil, standing by a table with a candle and lube in frame. Everything staged. Everything filmed. She told the jury she never consented to being recorded, and that Diddy used the footage to blackmail her. Once, he even played one of the videos during a commercial flight like it was a party trick.
And somewhere in the wreckage of memory, a name started echoing again Jonathan Oddi.
He wasn’t supposed to be taken seriously. In 2018, he stormed Trump’s Miami hotel with a gun, ranting about politics, porn, and the Illuminati. The headlines branded him unhinged. He was dismissed as a lunatic.
But what never made the headlines?
What he told the FBI during interrogation.
He claimed he was once part of a network run by Sean Combs. A sexual operation involving Cassie, NDAs, blackmail, and men who were trafficked alongside women. He said there were videos. He said there were handlers. He said names we weren’t ready to hear.
Today, in open court, Cassie Ventura testified that Diddy hired male escorts to join in these “freak-offs” and that she was forced to participate. She said she was shown thirteen faces. She didn’t know their names, but she remembered each one. The jury saw them, one by one.
She didn’t call it a party. She called it survival.
And just like that, Oddi’s story doesn’t sound so far-fetched anymore.
He said there was a system. She just confirmed there was.
He said men were involved. She just told the court there were.
He said he signed a $5 million NDA. Cassie said blackmail was how Diddy kept people quiet.
Maybe he wasn’t delusional.
Maybe he was just the first one who said it out loud.
They didn’t believe him then. But they should’ve.
Because what we saw in court today the tapes, the stills, the men, the machine, it all lines up.
And it makes you wonder: How many other “crazy” stories were just the truth told too early?
The Stillness of a Predator
But not everyone flinched.
Diddy didn’t move. Not a twitch. Not when the images were shown. Not when Cassie’s voice cracked. Not when the jury recoiled like they’d just been slapped.
He sat there in designer silence, stone-faced, postured, arms crossed at points, fingers steepled like he was in a business meeting, not a federal trial for sex trafficking. One person in the gallery said he blinked less than usual during the images. Others noted the same detached stillness he had in that Miami hallway footage. Walking past Cassie’s battered body like it was a chair tipped over in a hotel lobby.
This wasn’t shock. It was control. Still playing the role of the unbothered mogul. Still performing. Still above it.
His legal team mirrored that energy, cold, composed, careful. One leaned over to whisper something during a particularly graphic image, not with concern, but strategy. Another kept their eyes on the jury instead of the screen, gauging who was breaking, who might be moved, who might still be winnable.
But even the best defense can’t plug a leak in the human soul.
The prosecution didn’t have to say anything. The room said it for them.
Cassie looked like a woman holding her breath through a fire. The jury looked like they were drowning in it. And Diddy? He looked like he’d seen this all before and never once been held accountable.
Until now.
Enjoy the Silence
Cassie didn’t just describe freak offs as abuse. She described them as employment—forced labor under threat, performed for the pleasure and control of one man.
She testified that these sessions happened “hundreds of times.” That after a while, they became routine. Normalized. “Like a job.”
Diddy would text her coded instructions.
“I want to have a successful FO,” one message read.
Another text included the letter “K.” Cassie told the court that meant ketamine is a preferred drug to disassociate her from what was about to happen.
Sometimes she resisted. She told him no. Told him she didn’t want to participate.
“He pulled me out so many times I gave up,” she said.
And afterward, she was often in physical pain. Cassie testified that she suffered stomach issues, gastrointestinal problems, UTIs, and sores in her mouth after these sessions.
She took pills just to “feel numb.”
“I can’t believe I actually dealt with that. Having sex with a UTI was horrible—so uncomfortable.”
But UTIs weren’t the only concern.
Cassie testified about recurring sores in her mouth, stomach pain, and infections that wouldn’t go away. And while no doctor testified. The implication was loud. These weren’t just stress symptoms. These were the physical consequences of prolonged, coerced exposure to unsafe, non-consensual group sex. These were the risks that came with being ordered to perform, to glisten, to take ketamine and forget who you were.
In a room full of strangers, while one man watched.
No condoms. No safety. Just scripts and cameras.
“It was back to back,” she told the court.
“Sometimes I had to do it when I already had a UTI.” She didn’t say “STDs.” But she didn’t have to. Everyone listening knew what was being said between the lines.
This can not be undone
There’ve been brutal days in this trial. Bloody days. Days full of horrifying detail. But Day 7 was different.
This wasn’t just testimony anymore. It was impact.
The jury didn’t just hear Cassie’s story. They felt it. They saw it. They couldn’t unsee it.
This was the day the case stopped being about allegations and started being about evidence. Frozen images of a woman being used. A man watching. A system in motion.
This was the day jurors turned from observers into witnesses.
This was the day Diddy stopped looking like a defendant and started looking like a predator.
And it wasn’t just the content. It was the contrast. Cassie, steady in her grief. The jury, rattled. The gallery, hushed. And Diddy? Still. Arrogant. Expressionless. Like he thought this trial was beneath him.
But not today.
Today was different because you could feel the shift in the air like something sacred had cracked. Like the jury finally saw the machine behind the music. The quiet violence. The architecture of control.
And from here on out, every word, every witness, every piece of evidence is going to fall under the weight of what they saw today.
This wasn’t just another day in court.
This was the day the veil dropped.
During the freak offs, Cassie said Combs didn’t just touch her. He hit her.
“He would put his hands on me, grab me, push me up, push me down,” she testified.
He hit her and kicked her. Even when escorts were nearby.
They could hear it. Sometimes they asked if she was okay.
She said yes. Because what else could she say?
It Shifted for Me, Too
And it didn’t just shift in the courtroom. It shifted for me too.
When I woke up and watched the TMZ video. The full surveillance clip of the 2016 hotel incident. Not the cropped version. Not the censored headlines. The whole thing.
Cassie on the floor. Crawling. Her body limp like she was trying to escape through the carpet. And Diddy. Wrapped in a towel. Walking past her like she didn’t exist.
Then I started reading messages. Real-time texts from someone with people inside that courtroom. They told me how jurors reacted. What the air felt like when the freak off images were shown. How the silence was so loud it felt like something was screaming underneath it.
And I’ll be honest: I physically felt sick.
I closed my phone. Sat on the edge of my bed. And I thought: I can’t do this today. Not today.
Because this wasn’t just journalism anymore. This was spiritual. This was psychic. This was trauma echoing through pixels and transcripts and hitting people in the gut.
And if I, watching from a screen, reading from a phone, felt like this, I can’t imagine what it felt like to sit in that courtroom.
That’s how I know Day 7 was different.
The court saw it all. The text messages, surveillance, photos. One of them showed Cassie at a film premiere, dressed in gold beside Combs, makeup thick enough to cover bruises.
She told the jury she wore “a lot of makeup” that night.
She had to because the hotel freak off that week had ended with him hitting her.
“He was sick,” she said of Combs’ mindset at the time.
“To think it was okay to do that to me and then walk a red carpet like nothing happened.”
Cassie’s Breakaway
Cassie described trying to leave. More than once. But he’d catch her.
We all saw her walk out of that freak off and Combs caught her in the hallway and threw a vase.
“I just remember it coming at me. It hit the wall.”
He yelled, but she can’t remember the words. Just the feeling.
Another time, she told jurors that after a violent night, Diddy texted her:
“Call me now. The cops are here.”
He was panicking, trying to control the narrative. Telling her he was being arrested. Even though he wasn’t.
She didn’t tell police what happened. She didn’t want to hurt him.
“Yes, of course I wanted to protect him,” she said.
That's why to me, the defense can paint him as a swinger and these girls wanted it and they were a part of that lifestyle. But that video of her trying to flee from that freak off proves, right there that not everything was consensual!
But that wasn’t the only time his rage left a mark.
Cassie recounted a harrowing incident from 2013, just before attending Drake's OVO Festival in Toronto. She was at her apartment with two friends when Diddy entered, enraged that she had been resting instead of packing. As she testified:
"Sean came in. I was asleep. He was trying to attack me,"
Her friends attempted to intervene, jumping on Diddy's back to stop him. Despite their efforts, he managed to throw her onto the bedframe, causing a severe injury:
"I cut my eyebrow on the corner of the bed," she said. "I had a significant gash."
Instead of seeking immediate medical attention at a hospital, Diddy arranged for his security team to take her to a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills to suture the wound. Cassie later texted him a photo of her injury with the message:
"So you can remember."
Diddy's response was dismissive and accusatory:
"You don't know when to stop. You have pushed it too far."
Cassie testified that the injury left a permanent scar, which she still covers with makeup. She also recalled styling her hair to conceal the wound during the festival, highlighting the lengths she went to hide the abuse.
After everything she endured, thhe abuse, the control, the freak offs, the isolation, the infections, the threats, Cassie Ventura did something almost no one expected.
She left.
It didn’t happen all at once. It was slow. Quiet. Like peeling yourself out of wet concrete. She got sober. She started therapy. She told someone the truth. Not the public version, but the raw one. The version with no makeup, no camera, no NDA.
She didn’t scream. But she did cry. And at one point during her testimony, she needed a break. The courtroom was too heavy. Her history was too loud. And as she stood, witnesses saw her place a hand on her pregnant belly.
She wasn’t just testifying. She was protecting the life growing inside her while reliving the worst parts of her own.
And still, she came back. Sat down. Kept going.
In November 2023, she filed the lawsuit that shattered the illusion. In 35 pages, she put the entire machine on notice: the rape, the sex trafficking, the tapes, the fear, the silence.
Diddy paid her $20 million in 24 hours. But that wasn’t the end.
She didn’t walk away quietly. She walked into that courtroom. Pregnant. Composed. Unshaken.
She didn’t owe anyone this testimony. In fact, some people have even questioned why she’s up there at all like this trial is Cassie versus Sean Combs. It’s not. It’s The United States versus Sean Combs. She is just one witness. One piece of a much larger case being built by the federal government.
But still, she showed up. And she told the truth anyway. Not because she had to, but because she chose to.
Because her voice was never gone. It was just waiting to be heard on her terms.
This wasn’t just her breakaway.
It was her reclamation.
Jurors were shown the aftermath. Not just freak off footage but the bruises. The physical evidence of what Cassie said she endured behind closed doors.
One image was a close-up: her eye swollen and darkened.
“Who caused this?”
“Sean,” she said.
Another photo. Another injury. Another moment Cassie had to narrate the violence done to her, as if the bruises weren’t enough. But the most haunting part wasn’t the violence. it was the secrecy.
She told the court Combs’s “eyes were black.”
“He wasn’t himself,” she said, recalling the moment she realized this wasn’t just a man in a rage. This was a man in total control.
And then she shared what he told her afterward, not out of remorse, but out of fear that his image might crack:
“Make sure my son doesn’t see you like that.”
Not: Are you okay? Not: I’m sorry. Just: Don’t let them see what I did.
Because in Diddy’s world, the damage wasn’t the problem. Being seen was.
What She Said That Silenced the Room
By the end of her testimony, Cassie’s voice cracked. Not from nerves, but exhaustion. Not just physical, but spiritual. She said she carried guilt for years. That she blamed herself for staying. For performing. For trying to survive.
But in front of a silent courtroom, she said this:
“What’s right is right, and what’s wrong is wrong. People aren’t disposable.”
In January 2017, Cassie sent Diddy a text message that starkly illuminated the abusive nature of their relationship:
“You treat me like you're Ike Turner."
Because surviving is one thing. Leaving takes everything.
When asked in court about the meaning behind this message, she explained:
"I was comparing Combs to someone notoriously abusive, controlling."
This comparison underscored the physical and emotional torment she endured. Cassie elaborated on the coercive environment, particularly during the so-called "freak offs":
“He would put his hands on me," she testified. "He would grab me up, push me down, hit me on the side of the head, kick me."
Despite expressing her desire to stop participating in these degrading sessions, she felt trapped:
"It was always a concern of mine that Combs could turn violent."
It wasn’t just a statement.
It was a line in the sand.
Fuck Day 7
This wasn’t the day the trial turned messy. It was the day it turned real.
Cassie didn’t just testify! She made the truth undeniable. Her pain wasn’t theoretical. It was documented. Played back. Projected on courtroom screens. And whether you believe every word or still flinch at the thought of her going back, one thing is now impossible to ignore:
She showed up.
And so did the silence. The complicity. The people who watched and said nothing. The people still defending him online. The ones too quiet, too late.
But something cracked today. In that courtroom. In the jury. In me.
And once it cracks, it can’t be unbroken.
Because the truth is when you're traumatized, you're never fully free. You can leave the person. You can survive the past. But sometimes the past doesn’t leave you. I know, because I was raised in the shadow of someone who should’ve protected me but didn’t. My mother’s damage didn’t just touch my childhood. It shaped the voice inside me. And now, as a mother to a son and daughter, I’ve learned that it’s not overthinking or overprotecting that haunts me. It’s the little girl who wasn’t heard. She still lives in me. And when I get overwhelmed, when I feel cornered or dismissed, she doesn’t whisper. She screams. She yells. She panics like she’s 8 years old again, begging to be believed.
So I pray, for Cassie, for me, for the women raising children while still healing the child within. May we find grace for ourselves. May we learn to mother the girl inside us, too.
Because survival isn’t just math. It’s resurrection. And every day we show up, we rewrite the equation.
See you for Day 8.
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EXCELLENT, Alice! This is such great work. May God keep giving Cassie the strength and bravery to provide the truth to put this monster away for life. I pray that every name of every participant will be exposed, too. May God give continue giving you the inner strength and peace you need inside, Alice, because all this is so tough to hear, see and deal with! Thank you for writing this for the world.
This... Thank you for this. This is so important for people to read. Thank you