The summer before my sixteenth birthday marked a pivotal moment in my life when I met Alex at a writing workshop for high school students. From the very first day, I was captivated by his thick dark hair, the way he erupted with laughter, and his passionate discussions about the stories we analyzed. I had awkward braces and highlighted hair, often hesitant in my contributions, prefacing my thoughts with “I’m not sure, but…” or “Maybe I’m wrong, but…”
As our relationship blossomed a few months later, my braces were gone, yet I still covered my mouth while smiling. I fell for Alex for reasons both profound and superficial; he was not only handsome and intelligent but also kind and insightful. He had a remarkable grasp of music, aced his AP Chemistry exam, and dreamed of writing poetry—an aspiration that resonated deeply with my youthful romanticism. What I didn’t realize was that beneath his charming exterior lay a tumult of anger and despair that he struggled to manage, erupting at moments like an uncontrollable geyser.
Alex was my first serious boyfriend, and the early days of our relationship were infused with a sense of novelty. Just sitting together in silence while reading felt electric. However, he had experienced love before with his ex, Mia, a talented artist and the head of her school’s dance team. I felt a pang of jealousy when Alex recounted an incident where he threw his phone against the wall out of frustration with her. What made Mia so special that she could elicit such strong emotions? Would he ever feel that way about me?
It soon became evident that Alex’s anger stemmed from deeper issues unrelated to either Mia or me. We attended different high schools, and he often insisted that I return home immediately after school to chat with him during the brief break he had between classes and his job at a record store. If I failed to comply, he would claim that I didn’t truly love him. He even threatened to harm himself with a knife in his hand, and while I couldn’t verify the truth of those threats—especially before the era of video calls—I found myself believing him instinctively. I was convinced of his volatility, having witnessed him smash a window with his forehead in frustration. Thus, I made it a point to return home promptly and talk to him, avoiding any possible triggers like answering call waiting, which would incite his fury.
One December night, nearly a year into our relationship, I felt utterly drained. Our constant arguments left me exhausted, as I used all my energy to keep the peace. We attended a party hosted by a classmate, and I remember odd details: the lazy white Persian cat, the seahorse-shaped soap in the bathroom. Alex was in a foul mood and wanted to leave, but I wanted to stay with friends for a bit longer. When I expressed my desire to stay, he exploded in anger, telling me to “go fuck myself” and storming off down the street. Moments later, he began pounding his fists against a brick wall. I rushed to him, desperate to stop the self-inflicted harm, pleading for him to calm down.
“Ben, please stop. Let’s just go home,” I begged, hoping to de-escalate the situation. Instead, he shouted at me, hurling insults that pierced my heart. I felt the heat of humiliation as our friends looked on. I stood there, close to him, wishing he would just hit me. If he did, it would validate my belief that I was enduring real abuse, allowing me to walk away for good. I was under the impression that without physical violence, what I was experiencing couldn’t be classified as abuse.
However, Alex never raised a hand to me, not then nor during the many months that followed. His violence manifested in less direct ways—controlling my actions and emotions. He enforced curfews even on nights apart, and when I wasn’t in the mood for intimacy, he would become furious, sometimes damaging property in his rage.
Recognizing signs of emotional abuse can be exceptionally challenging, as there is no universal definition outlining this form of mistreatment. At seventeen, I lacked the confidence to confront him, and a web of guilt and fear kept me from breaking things off sooner. That night by the subway, I struggled to comprehend the dynamics of our relationship, wishing for clarity in what was happening to me.
Reflecting on those events more than a decade later, I now understand the truth: Alex’s behavior was undeniably toxic, regardless of the absence of visible scars or bruises. His refusal to physically harm me did not negate the existence of emotional damage. Emotional abuse often goes unnoticed, creating confusion about what constitutes an unhealthy relationship. According to studies, one in three teens in the U.S. experiences some form of abuse from a partner, be it physical, sexual, emotional, or verbal. It is critical for young people to engage in discussions about all forms of abuse, as patterns formed in adolescence can predict further abusive behavior later in life.
Looking back, I cherish the complexities of my relationship with Alex, remembering both the reasons I was drawn to him and the difficulties in leaving. More importantly, I wish I could tell my seventeen-year-old self that I deserved better, that I was not weak, and that his treatment of me was not ambiguous. Time has illuminated the fact that one does not need a “justifiable” reason to end a relationship—abuse, in any form, is a valid reason for departure, and survivors don’t have to exhibit physical signs for their experiences to be recognized as real.
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