I’ve spent what feels like an eternity staring at a blank Word document. Sure, I’ve typed a few words here and there, but each character ends up being deleted. Why? Because it feels impossible to express, “I’m a victim of domestic violence.” It’s a truth that’s difficult to articulate. Yet here I am, writing these words while sitting across the table from my partner—the same man who once attempted to drown me and struck me in the face.
Before delving into my current reality, I should provide some context about my past. I just revealed a heavy truth, one I don’t share lightly. When I first met my partner, Sam, in the fall of ‘96, he wasn’t the person you’d imagine. He was young and carefree, not violent at all. We were simply kids—art companions and friends. We grew up together.
We shared a passion for literature, diving into works by authors like Kurt Vonnegut, Hunter S. Thompson, and Stephen King. We enjoyed concerts, moshing to bands like Metallica and Motorhead. For nearly a decade, we celebrated life together, playing video games from Mario Kart to Super Smash Bros. But somewhere between his 12th birthday and his 20th, he underwent a transformation—not in character but in his relationship with alcohol. The sweet, shy boy I knew became aggressive and abusive.
I could recount countless incidents of abuse, like the time he injured me over something trivial, or share how he manipulated and belittled me. But those details don’t encapsulate the reality of my experience. They are personal and painful, and revisiting them would only exacerbate my PTSD. What I can emphasize is that he was abusive, I was abused, and I remained in this toxic cycle for many years. Although he no longer drinks or physically harms me, I continue to stay. Why? Because our relationship is intricate and multifaceted. I love him deeply, and that love has endured. The abuse isn’t always evident in overt actions; sometimes it’s subtle and insidious. Leaving such a relationship is profoundly complicated.
Many people think leaving is simple—just walk away. But it’s far from that. Abuse reshapes your mind, impacting your self-worth and instilling fear that can paralyze you. Statistics reveal that the most dangerous times in an abusive relationship often occur during the process of leaving.
There are also emotional ties that bind. Relationships often cycle between periods of abuse and heartfelt apologies. My partner frequently professed his love with phrases like, “I can’t live without you.” Some believe they can change their abuser, clinging to the person they once loved instead of the abuser they’ve become. There’s also the guilt that comes from recognizing that you’ve tolerated unacceptable behavior. The shame can be overwhelming.
Logistics also play a role: children, finances, housing, and jobs all complicate the decision to leave.
I understand that it’s hard for outsiders to grasp why someone would stay in such a situation. While I could elaborate on the effects of abuse endlessly, unless you’ve experienced it—faced physical or emotional harm—it’s difficult to fully appreciate the emotional turmoil involved. Yet, it’s essential to approach those in these situations with empathy and compassion. Your role is not to judge but to listen and support them without stigma. Love should be unconditional.
So please, don’t judge those who find it hard to leave abusive relationships. Every day is a battle. Leaving is not just hard; it’s often a near-impossible task.
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Summary:
This article discusses the complexities of staying in an abusive relationship, emphasizing the emotional, psychological, and logistical barriers individuals face when considering leaving. It highlights the need for empathy and understanding from those outside the situation.