Learning Who I Was Again

I was 22 when I started dating [Name].

When our relationship began, I had this perfect picture in my head of what our life together was going to look like. I believed we were building a future together. I didn’t realize then that I might not have been what he wanted in the long run.

At first, things seemed okay. But over time, the relationship changed.

There was a lot of verbal abuse. We were both hot-headed, but there was a difference between losing your temper and repeatedly tearing someone down. [Name] called me names. He called me a worthless bitch and told me that even my own family wouldn’t want me back in their lives.

Those words started getting inside my head.

I became depressed. I gained weight. And instead of supporting me, he used my insecurities against me. He told me he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. He said I didn’t turn him on, even mentally. He told me I was stupid, that he couldn’t have a conversation with me, and that I never thought for myself.

Little by little, I started believing the person he was telling me I was.

Then, on our fifth anniversary, things became physical.

All I wanted that night was to spend time with him. We’d had dinner, and I wanted to enjoy the evening together. Instead, he wanted to spend time with a neighbor. When he eventually came back, I confronted him because I couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to spend our anniversary with me.

He cornered me in the bathroom.

He told me that he couldn’t understand why he’d want to spend time with me because I had nothing to offer him. He called me a worthless bitch again.

I was angry. I was hurt. And I became confrontational.

I remember saying, “You’re going to hit me, aren’t you? Then do it. Fucking do it.”

He pulled his fist back.

For a moment, I thought he was going to hit me.

He didn’t.

Instead, he grabbed me by the throat, lifted me against the wall, and held me there before letting me go. I dropped to the floor.

That was the first time the relationship became physically violent toward me.

But the abuse wasn’t only physical.

There was financial abuse, too. I was the only one working a regular paying job. Much of my paycheck went toward supporting his addiction, including Suboxone and other drugs. I wanted what I thought most people wanted—a normal life, stability, and a future together.

Instead, I was helping sustain a life that was destroying both of us.

Eventually, I became someone I didn’t recognize either.

During one of our final major arguments, I became reactionary. I put my fist through a window. I remember shoving him.

I don’t tell that part of my story to excuse what happened to me, and I don’t tell it to pretend I handled everything perfectly.

I didn’t.

I was angry. I was hurt. I was becoming toxic in my own reactions to an incredibly toxic relationship.

And that’s when I realized something important:

We were toxic for each other, but I was the one who needed to get out.

A couple of months before I finally left, I went out one night to spend time with a friend and clear my head.

While I was gone, my mother told me something [Name] had confided in her. He said that the next time I was gone for a long time, he was going to pack his things and leave.

Something about hearing that changed everything.

It became the leverage I needed to finally say:

Okay. Then we’re done.

I left him in 2018.

And I never went back.

Leaving didn’t magically make everything better. I had to learn how to live without him. I had to learn who I was without someone constantly telling me that I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, attractive enough, or worthy enough.

I had to rebuild myself.

And then, when I was six months pregnant with my child, I learned that [Name] had died from an overdose.

That news was complicated.

Part of me was devastated because, despite everything that had happened between us, I had always hoped he would overcome his addiction. I wanted to believe that one day he would get better.

What made the loss even harder was learning that the cat we had shared had died alongside him.

There is no simple way to explain the emotions that came with that.

I could mourn someone who had hurt me.

I could be angry with someone who was no longer here.

I could remember the good moments without forgetting the bad ones.

And I could grieve the person I hoped he would become while still accepting the person he actually was.

That relationship taught me lessons I carry with me to this day.

I learned how to recognize manipulation.

I learned about gaslighting.

I learned what obsessive and controlling behavior can look like.

I learned that verbal abuse is still abuse.

I learned that financial control can be abuse.

I learned that physical violence doesn’t have to happen every day for a relationship to be dangerous.

And perhaps most importantly, I learned what I will never tolerate again.

I also learned to look at myself honestly.

Surviving an abusive relationship doesn’t mean you walk away without scars. Sometimes you develop unhealthy reactions just trying to survive something unhealthy. That doesn’t erase what happened, but recognizing my own behavior helped me understand the person I was becoming—and the person I never wanted to remain.

I don’t tell this story because I want sympathy.

I tell it because somebody else might be sitting in a bathroom right now, being told they’re worthless.

Somebody might be handing over their entire paycheck while wondering where their life went.

Somebody might be constantly apologizing for things they didn’t do.

Somebody might be convinced that nobody else will ever love them.

I know what that feels like.

And if there is one thing I want someone to take from my story, it’s this:

You are not what someone who hurts you says you are.

You are not worthless.

You are not stupid.

You are not unlovable.

And you do not have to wait until the abuse gets worse before deciding that you’ve had enough.