What I’ve Learned About Abuse

I’ve debated for a long time about sharing my story. Not because I don’t want to share what I went through; but for the backlash I might endure for telling the truth. What I’ve decided, though, is that staying silent only protects my abuser. And I’m past the days of protecting him.

Only those closest to me know my story, and even then, not every detail. So much of it I am embarrassed to share because I feel foolish for allowing this man to treat me this way for so long. My intention is not to tell every wretched detail, but to enlighten my audience on the different kinds of abuse that exist and how to keep an eye out for abusive behavior in your relationship.

We all make mistakes; if your spouse or partner says or does something abusive, a good person will be able to correct and never do it again. In my case, my abuser recognized his actions and did nothing to change it. For years.

While I won’t out him by name or identifying features, I will share my experience. As cathartic as it is for me to write this all out and give myself grace and peace, it’s even more important that these things are shared so as to empower other women (or men) to recognize abuse before it is too late.

To be fair to myself, I have to admit, the abuse was not immediately recognized. It took at least a year for the small things to creep in, and got progressively worse year over year. After five years, our relationship ended (thankfully). The abuse didn’t stop when the relationship did, but that’s another story for another day.

Since my abuser was not physically abusive, it didn’t occur to me that what I was experiencing was abuse. The gaslighting, the manipulation, the cruel words, criticisms and lack of empathy I always chalked up to his moodiness or his inability to regulate his emotions. I made excuse after excuse for why he treated me poorly and rationalized it away. I told myself that his toxic childhood was what was speaking; that he’s really not a bad guy, that deep down he has a good heart. I met his rage, anger and pettiness with an understanding only a manipulated woman could. I allowed my empathy for him and his situation to override the kindness I deserved. I allowed his abuse to continue far longer than it should have, and I carry an immense amount of guilt because of that.

Five years ago, though, I didn’t know that I couldn’t heal him. I honestly believed that I could take this injured bird and rehabilitate him into a new version of himself, just by loving him right. I had so much to give, and I was so willing to give it. I thought if I sacrificed my happiness for his, I could mend his broken pieces. I thought if I made his life easier and eliminated his stress, I could create happiness for him. But the truth is, you can’t create happiness for someone else; they have to a) want it for themselves and b) do it for themselves. I was overconfident in my ability to show him the beautiful side of life, hanging onto every last drop of hope that he’d see the forest through the trees. What a let down.

As I continue to unpack this relationship for my own healing, I plan to share all the ways in which I was abused. I’ve learned that abuse takes on many different shapes: from emotional and mental abuse, to verbal and financial abuse, and others in between. I was blissfully unaware of many of these types of abuse because I’ve never experienced them before. I made so many excuses for his behavior and chalked it up to him just “being an asshole.” But “asshole” behavior is abusive behavior, and its time we start calling it what it is and stop protecting and shielding these abusers from the consequences of their actions.

As I was preparing to leave our home, it was one of the scariest and nerve-wracking times of my life. I already never knew what personality I was going to get from day to day, but now under the stress of me actually leaving, I really had no idea what to expect. Most of the time, he kept his temper under control, until he didn’t and got in the face of my son. And that was the last straw. It was then that I knew I’d made the right choice. I knew it would cost me a lot of money, but the price was worth gaining back my freedom and the safety of my children.

Since the first night I left that house and moved into my own place, I’ve felt a tremendous sense of peace. Blocking his number from my phone was a glorious event in itself, too. To not have to worry about being inundated with rants and circular arguments was liberating. Each day forward, I’ve felt a little bit of myself returning to the woman I was proud to be. She’s been missing for a few years, but she’s making a comeback, and sharing my story and hearing the stories of others empowers me to do so.