It didn’t happen in that dark alley. It happened behind closed doors. My abuser, who claimed to love me, was a devil in disguise, and I simply failed to see it. The betrayal didn’t just come from violence. It came from the way he robbed me of my sense of self and safety.
The first time my abuser became physically violent occurred on an evening that I promptly reported to his house after work, as instructed. Back then, I was a smoker and he told me to quit – this was a demand, not a choice given to me. I gave in to temptation and on my way to his house that evening, smoked the remaining Marlboro Menthol that I had secretly stowed away in my car.
I walked into his house, and he kissed me. He smelled the smoke on my breath. Before I had an opportunity to know what was happening, I was grabbed by the neck, slammed against a wall, and thrown to the floor. It was my fault for disobeying a direct order. I had brought this abuse upon myself and apologized for my behavior. I had given him no other choice than to resort to physical violence.
Even today, I sometimes look back on this day and ask myself: “How could I have been so foolish to blame myself for his actions?” However, on that day, I was still in the grips of his abuse and the depths of my own victimhood. In my mind, I was at fault.
After a few more weeks of this behavior, I gained the courage to speak with a friend about what had occurred. I felt weak-minded and physically outmatched by a man who stood an entire foot taller than me, but I made the difficult and terrifying decision to end the relationship. I decided to break it off in person. That was the day my entire life would change forever.
In my next installment, I’ll discuss the night I tried to leave – and what happened when I did.
