The indicators were unmistakable. He openly admitted that every man in his family had a history of violence, although he claimed he would never be like them. His irrational rage had already surfaced; one evening, in a fit of anger, he kicked my car, leaving a dent. I remained kind and patient, trying to support him, yet he still managed to twist the blame onto me for his frustrations. He seemed to harbor a deep-seated animosity toward me. So why did I continue to stay? Was I convinced that the good moments could outweigh the troubling signs?
I remained in that relationship for over a year after writing that entry. Tragically, he did hit me. Throughout the next fourteen months, there were at least twenty instances of violent confrontations, culminating in both property damage and physical abuse.
At the time I wrote that entry, we had been dating for only six months, but I had left my husband to be with him. I had invested so much into this relationship—my husband, my family, friends who judged my choices. I had put everything on the line.
The man I thought I was betting on, however, was a fabrication. The charming, affectionate individual I fell for was merely a façade, a mask he wore to create a false sense of safety and love. At that moment, I couldn’t fully comprehend this deception. I clung to the belief that he was a good man who loved me dearly, while simultaneously bracing myself for the inevitable moment when he would strike me. My mind struggled to reconcile these two conflicting truths.
I yearned for a fairy tale ending, a love story where we would overcome the odds. Denial clouded my judgment, and I chose to stay.
The following four months were mostly calm, with only minor disputes. But then, one argument escalated to him punching a hole in the wall, another resulted in me being pushed off the bed. I convinced myself that as long as he didn’t hit me directly, it was acceptable. I thought domestic abuse only meant being severely beaten, like the stories I had seen on television. I was in profound denial.
One night, when he was angry, he smacked me on the buttocks with a metal water bottle, leaving a bruise. When I confronted him, he dismissed it as playful behavior. I was confused; something felt off, but I allowed his gaslighting to alter my perception of reality. I started to doubt my own memory, thinking perhaps I was overreacting. He always apologized, and we moved past these incidents.
We planned to move in together by February, and as the date approached, things seemed to improve. He was extra loving, and I felt optimistic about our future. The first few months of cohabitation were serene, devoid of fights or violence. He kept his promise to “get better.”
By the end of April, he proposed, and I accepted. This was the dream I had always envisioned—someone who adored me as much as I adored him, showering me with affection, gifts, and attention. We enjoyed countless adventures, laughter, and late nights together.
But two weeks after our engagement, the storm returned. In a fit of rage during an argument, he shattered my computer. He claimed it was an accident when he slammed my purse to the ground, unaware that my computer was inside. I realized I couldn’t marry him, but I still hesitated to leave. I reasoned that at least he hadn’t physically assaulted me this time, and I believed he could change.
Over the following months, he oscillated between being my loving partner and a terrifying abuser. The intensity and frequency of our arguments escalated, and his rage consumed him. He began to drink heavily, and I started a mental inventory of all the items he broke: a mirror, three doors, and countless other belongings. Yet in between the chaos, the charming man I had fallen for would re-emerge, allowing me to temporarily forget the pain.
The physical abuse intensified, with his actions testing the limits of what I deemed acceptable. What began as pushing and shoving evolved into slaps to the face during disagreements. I convinced myself it wasn’t serious; if he truly intended to harm me, it would be worse.
Despite the escalating violence, I never confided in friends about my situation. I hoped they would notice the signs, but they believed we were happy. Embarrassed and fearful, I stayed.
In December, following a significant argument, he violently dragged me out of bed, causing me injury. After hours of turmoil, I resorted to hitting him back once. He left in a huff, and I began to pack my belongings. The following day, he expressed deep remorse and promised to change. I had hope, so I stayed.
We celebrated the holidays together, and although he was sober, something felt amiss. He was irritable and refused to acknowledge his faults. Eventually, I recognized that he wouldn’t change, and the situation would only worsen. I began devising an escape plan and finally left on January 28, 2017.
After leaving, my life transformed in ways I never anticipated. I realize now that no one could have urged me to leave; I had to come to that decision on my own. Though my mind was ready back in October 2015, my heart took longer to catch up. I sometimes wish I had listened to my instincts sooner to avoid the year of suffering. But this is my journey, and I cannot alter the past. I can only embrace the future and share the lessons I’ve learned.
I now identify as both a victim and a survivor of domestic violence. My mission is to educate and empower others on their healing journeys. Trust your instincts and be compassionate with yourself, acknowledging the emotional turmoil involved.
If you found this story relatable, explore more on our blog, including topics like pregnancy and home insemination, such as our post on the Cryobaby at-home insemination kit. For further reading, check out this excellent resource on artificial insemination.
In summary, my experience served as a painful reminder of how easily one can become ensnared in a cycle of abuse and denial. It’s crucial to acknowledge the signs and trust your instincts.