Editor’s Note: Abusive relationships. maybe you’ve been in one, maybe your best friend has been in one or maybe you’ve only heard stories. Regardless, they are all around us, and the silence is loud. A lot of people think abuse manifests itself in cuts and bruises, broken bones and black eyes. But that isn’t always the case, and of this we must always be mindful. An anonymous Wyoming collegiette who found herself in an abusive relationship comes forward today, to tell her story.
I’d always thought abuse happened to girls with “daddy issues,” or “weaker” girls who couldn’t stand up for themselves. I thought, until I realized that I was in one, that abusive relationships only happened to a certain “type” of girl. This is how ignorant I was, and how ignorant a lot of people, men and women alike, are. This ignorance stems from a dissuasion our society has for talking about things like this—the hard stuff. So today I’ll talk about it, and hope my story inspires someone to tell his or hers one day.
He was my first serious boyfriend. We were together for almost two years. He was so romantic—he called me his “perfect princess” and said that he loved me more than anything. Somewhere along the way, “The Beginning,” or the first four months of dating that seemed so perfect and so easy, transformed into something that was anything but. A something, a reality, where I constantly felt bad about myself, constantly defended myself to him, and constantly defended him to the people who could see something was wrong. Quickly after The Beginning we became infatuated with one another; we never were apart, and when we were it was a constant struggle of “when will you be here? I thought you’d be back an hour ago.” We spent every waking moment together, and sleeping moments together too. He became how I defined me.
It was a big shock the first time he yelled at me. I immediately started crying, recoiled when he reached for me, didn’t speak for a few minutes afterwards, when even the air in the room seemed heavy and hard to breathe. We had dinner in the dining hall, and after I had some overcooked spaghetti and meaningless smalltalk with some girls who probably pitied me with my overflowing plate of pasta and puffy eyes, I was able to go back to my perch of denial, where I’d sit for the next year and a half that I dated this guy. His psychological abuse escalated slowly, so I couldn’t tell how bad it had really become.
He came home with me at spring break our freshman year, and passive-aggressively hinted at how he didn’t like my family or my best friend. So we stayed in my room the entire break. The same thing happened that summer, when he came to visit for the Fourth of July. He made me think he was better for me than all of them; my entire family and all of my friends combined. He criticized the words I said and the way I said them. He criticized the clothes I wore, the food I ate, my study habits, even the way I wore my hair. I wanted to be his perfect princess; I wanted to gain the validation that seemed so rare for him to give. So I stopped seeing my friends. I seldom talked to my family. I ate rice and pork and ham sandwiches, even though I don’t even like any of those things. He knew he had absolute control over me, and he used it every second of every day. We were only ever physically intimate when he wanted; and even then, he looked at it like a chore—like he was doing me a great service by having sex with me. I would beg, I would cry, and I would try to schedule intimacy (even kisses) around when he would want it, but it was never good enough. It was a constant struggle to be good enough. I didn’t feel beautiful. I didn’t feel wanted. I was useless, and most of the time, a pain in his ass.
The issue of intimacy was what started it all. I felt like when we were intimate, I was the only thing he wanted at that moment, I was what he loved most. And that was probably true, for however long the moment lasted, but afterward it was back to yelling and fighting and criticizing. I remember holding back tears every night for a year. An actual year went by, with me crying into my pillowcase on a nightly basis. I’ll admit, I felt bad for myself. I had no choice but to stay with him, because he made me feel so empty and so low that I was sure I’d never find anyone else to date me ever again. So he became immune to my hollow responses and tears, didn’t notice that I stopped asking for dates or looking for exciting things to do together. I evolved to fit his desires. But even this wasn’t what he wanted; he then constantly told me to be my own person, that I had no backbone and no confidence (which he found very unattractive), but criticized everything that made me, me.
One day he got mad. I honestly couldn’t tell you what this fight was about; I just remember he was mad. He grabbed both of my wrists tightly with just one of his hands, and spoke to me; teeth gritted, face inches from mine, and told me to get on my bike and go home. He didn’t want me here; he wanted to go to sleep. He threw a filled water bottle at me on the way out, and I had a bruise for days afterward. In a disgusting way, I was happy. I had a bruise to show for what he put me through—the psychological abuse left nothing on my body. But this made it real. It was around this time that I finally admitted to myself something was very wrong.
So I tried to break it off—several times. Even when we actually broke up for the last time we were still psycho and attacked each other via text messages or drunken tirades at parties. This made it pretty awful for the friends we shared. He still tried to control me, even afterwards; and everyone knew it except me. I realize now it was because I had let him have that control for so long, that he felt entitled to it. I was just a game, a toy to play with. It was fun for him to see how far he could push me, and to see what I’d let him do next. He made me feel horrible for moving on, and just pulled me right back in when it was convenient for him. But then, it stopped. I realized I deserved better, and I didn’t have to be the one to teach him how to treat me the way I deserved. One day, it just clicked. Why did I need his validation? Who was he, really, to need to manipulate someone until she hit rock bottom? Not someone I needed.
You’re probably thinking, why did you put up with that crap for a year and a half? Are you stupid? And I ask myself the same thing all the time. No, I’m not stupid, I never was. I was worn thin. I was a shell of a person with nothing to tie me to reality but the thread of a boy who called me dumb and useless, and that I was lucky to have him. So inevitably, that’s what I believed to be true. That doesn’t mean I was stupid. I’ve forgiven myself for that, because I remember what the helplessness felt like.
Since ridding myself of that helplessness and toxic relationship, I have gained a crazy amount of joy. All my friends and family say that I completely blossomed after he and I broke up. I am becoming my true self, and I’m proud of it. Most importantly, I am letting myself blossom, and letting myself be proud. I have found things I love, that I never knew I even liked. I made friends with people who I wouldn’t have even spoken to had I still been his girlfriend.
I stood in my own way by staying with the boy that told me who I was, who I should be. I also can’t say he’s entirely to blame, of course I should have told someone, but I didn’t. I was legitimately too afraid that people wouldn’t believe me. And for the fear, I don’t blame myself one bit. Abuse is real, whether or not you have the cuts or bruises to show for it, and it can happen to anyone.