Content/trigger warning: abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, threats of self-harm, sexual conversation

Abuse doesn’t feel the way it looks.

When I was 19, just a few days shy of 20 years old, I logged into an online dating profile I’d made while bored, intending to delete the account. Instead, I met a woman who, over the next two and a half years of our relationship, would change my life.

A woman who loved dogs. A woman with soft skin and beautiful hair. A woman who gave me an outlet for my newfound bisexual identity.

A woman whose smile I loved. Whose laugh I grew to resent. Who I almost married.

A woman who abused me.

Our photos tell one story. My words tell another.

Both are true.

Humiliation

She made a sexual comment on my appearance. I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed.

“Aw,” she said, laughing. “You’re so cute.”

It’s a compliment, I told myself. She meant it as a good thing.

I still felt uncomfortable. I stayed quiet. She continued saying these things.

Eventually they stopped bothering me. I got used to them.

She started saying new things, more things, seeking out my blushes and darting eyes. She laughed. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

Shame

I mispronounced a word, or misunderstood a financial concept, or was unaware of something in the news.

“You knew that, right?” she asked.

“Um. No.”

She laughed. “Oh, silly.” She explained it to me.

~

She sent me a YouTube link to a music review.

“Come on, this guy is hilarious. I love his videos.”

The title showed one of my favorite songs on the radio. I clicked.

He ranted about the immaturity of the lyrics. He criticized the repetitive beat. He made jokes about the music video.

“I really like that song,” I protested.

“That’s fine I guess. But he’s right! It’s lacking any artistic merit.”

She sent me another video. I loved that song, too.

I didn’t really want to watch anymore…

Control

On my birthday, she gave me a Harry Potter cookbook and a plastic mold for making chocolate frogs.

I grinned. We went to the grocery store the next day for chocolate melts and non-stick spray. I filled the six frog spaces in the mold and placed it in the fridge to set.

A few hours later, I popped out two frogs and handed one to her.

“This is so cute,” I said, smiling. “Thanks. I love it.”

She smiled. “I’m glad.” She nibbled her chocolate. “Man, these things are rich.”

I grinned. “I know.” I bit off another piece, my frog now halfway eaten.

She flipped open the kitchen trash and dropped hers inside. “I can’t finish that.” She plucked mine from my fingertips and dropped it in as well.

I blinked, startled. “I wasn’t finished with that.”

“That’s way too much sugar. We don’t want to get diabetes!” She walked to the living room.

~

We stood in the dressing room of an expensive clothing store in the mall. The price tags made me wince, but she insisted not to worry about that.

I wore the third suit I’d tried on so far today. I fidgeted in the stiff black material. Staring at myself in the mirror, I felt the same way I had with the previous two: like a child playing dress-up in a parent’s clothes.

“It just doesn’t feel like me.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, standing next to me in the mirror, inspecting the ensemble she’d chosen for me.

“There’s no color, no life.”

“Well black is more formal. You need people to take you seriously.”

“Plenty of people in marketing and public relations wear colorful suits.”

She pursed her lips. “We can try something with color, I guess. Maybe a burgundy? Navy?”

That’s not what I meant, but I let it go. “I’m just not sure a suit is my style. I’m not really comfortable in it.”

“You need a suit for interviews at least. You don’t have to wear it all the time, but you do want to look professional at work.”

“Look, nothing wrong with women in suits, but it’s not… me,” I repeated. “It’s just so masculine. I don’t like it.”

I tried to imagine what I did want, to find the words to explain. A vague image of sleek tan slacks and silky patterned blouses came to mind. What were those jackets called, the ones that weren’t suit coats but kinda were?

“How about a skirtsuit?” she said.

I pictured myself in a pencil skirt with a tight bun. The mental image felt ridiculous. I sighed. “I’ll try one.” She’s just trying to help you land a job. I swallowed down my frustration and the thoughts that followed.

I wish she’d quit trying to make me just like her. I wish she’d listen to me about my industry.

I wish we could leave these stupid expensive dry-clean-only never-on-sale stores.

Monitoring

My finger hovered over the mouse button, ready to click “post” on Facebook. Should I really comment on this?

A year ago I would never have questioned. I meant every word. I wanted to say this.

But she would see this. What would she think?

I clicked. I imagined her phone buzzing with the notification.

Every post. Every comment. Every like. She watched them all, read every word. She was a member of every group I joined. She saw it all.

I don’t know why this makes me uncomfortable. It’s not like I have anything to hide. She just likes to know what I have to say.

~

I walked out of my class building into the sunny day. I pulled my phone from my pocket.

Five missed calls. Three voicemails. I sighed and played the first one, holding the phone to my ear.

She was crying. “I know you’re in class right now, but I really need you, babe. I just- I don’t know what to do.” She sobbed, explaining what event had transpired this time.

The next two voicemails were longer, the maximum length of several minutes. I played the first; the audio only captured sniffles and crying. I skipped ahead to a few spots which sounded the same. The last voicemail matched the second.

Great. Damage control time. A pang of guilt shot through me at the thought. I took a deep breath and headed in search of a more private space to call her back. Lunch would have to wait.

Last night, I spent two hours in the dorm lobby with my friends. Five voicemails. Two weeks ago, I forgot my phone when I went to class. Seven panicked texts.

A month ago, I’d gone out for Starbucks and didn’t text her that I wouldn’t call right after dinner like usual. She threatened to ignore me for a week.

Blame

We’d been arguing for almost an hour. It was past midnight. My 8 a.m. class had an exam the next morning.

“We’re just tired,” I pleaded. “We both need sleep. Let’s just go to bed and talk about this in the morning, okay?”

“Okay, fine. I guess my emotions don’t matter to you. I’m not a priority.”

“No, baby, of course you’re a priority to me. I just think we both need sleep. It’s late.”

“You’re always doing this! Why don’t I matter to you?”

Doing what? “You do, baby.”

“Maybe I should just stop talking to you. Sometimes you make me want to just turn my phone off or ignore you. Maybe I should just block you for a month.”

“No, baby…”

Threats

I made a joke. She felt hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Her anger rose. “You’re not really sorry. You wouldn’t have said it.”

“Really, I’m sorry.”

“You sound like my brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is that all you have to say? God, say something else.”

“I don’t know what else to say!”

Her voice broke. She began to sob. “It’s been such a hard week and I don’t need you making it worse. Yesterday I kept staring at the knives in the kitchen thinking about just stabbing one in me and ending all of this.”

My stomach soured. I took a deep breath to keep the panic in my lungs at bay. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how bad it’s been right now…”

Isolation

I closed the messaging app on my phone and rolled my eyes. “Mom texted again. I don’t understand her problem. I know she’s uncomfortable with me marrying a woman, but we’ve been engaged for almost a year. This is happening. I wish she’d get that.”

She wrapped her arm around me. “You know, if it gets you this worked up, you don’t need to keep texting her. We can call my mom instead. She’ll make you feel better.”

The next time I cried, I called her mother. She told me to call her “Ma.”

I stopped talking to my mother.

Confusion

She went to bed before me. I climbed onto the queen mattress slowly so I wouldn’t wake her.

I wanted to sleep, but my mind buzzed. Something felt off — but what? Why? I had no idea.

The closer our wedding day came, the more I dreaded it. What did I have to fear so much? I loved her. She loved me. I’d promised myself to her two years ago. Why was I feeling this way now?

I opened the incognito browser on my phone and input the same search term I’d typed countless nights before, every couple of months. “Should I break off my engagement?”

The results were always the same… and never really cleared the fog in my head or my heart.

Coercion

She laughed into the phone. “I guess I just don’t understand. What do you have against anal? Are you afraid it will hurt or something?”

Yes, it could definitely hurt. “I mean, yeah.”

“Well we’d be careful. We’d go slow. There’s lube, too. Just use lots of lube.”

I still don’t want to. “I’m still not comfortable with it.”

“But why?”

I don’t know. Because I’m not. “What about infections? There’s so much bacteria.”

She paused. “Yeah, I guess you have a point.”

She was going to drop it. Thank God. “So, anyway-“

“But what if I stuck something just between the cheeks? Like, not in the hole?”

Please stop please stop please stop. “Can we just not?”

She giggled. “What’s wrong?”

“I just feel weird. It’s uncomfortable.”

“How do you know if you’ve never tried?”

How do I make her stop? “What would the point even be? What would you put… there?”

“I don’t know, like a spatula or something.”

What the hell? “Why? Why on earth would that be sexy?”

She laughed again. “I don’t know, it just is. Just think how cute you’d look…”

I don’t know how to make her stop…

These are only a few of my stories. I spent two and a half years living in moments like these. Maybe one day I’ll share more.

Gaslighting. Manipulation. Playing the victim. Ignoring my requests. Patronizing. Monitoring my activities. Pushing — overstepping — completely obliterating my boundaries. Shame. Control. Isolation. Forcing me to accept expensive gifts I didn’t want.

She made me feel small, silly, weak. Dependent. My insides grew more stifled, resentful, constricted. The thought of our wedding day made my stomach drop. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat.

When she was angry, nothing I said was right, not even apologies, so I quit talking. That made her angry, too — I was too unfeeling, too “cold.”

She was the judge of what was funny or hurtful. She decided what music, movies, games we enjoyed. She was the expert in what I should wear and how I should prepare for my life. She was always the determining voice. She asked my opinions, but hers were always better — so what was the point in me having them?

Autonomy

I pulled up the video call, a giddy grin on my face. The skin on my left forearm was sore, red, and puffy, but I couldn’t stop admiring it anyway. My beautiful new first tattoo, an homage to the stories that most influenced my life.

The screen pinged. Her face filled the call window. I waved.

“Hi babe! Are you ready?”

Her face was wary. “Yeah.”

I held up my arm, facing the design toward the webcam. “Ta-da! Isn’t it gorgeous?!”

“That’s… really big.”

I lowered my arm. “It’s not that big, really. I love it. It’s perfect.”

“It’s bigger than you said it’d be.”

My smile faded. “No it’s not.” I paused. “Why would that matter, anyway?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t. I just… feel weird about tattoos.”

I’d sent her messages about the tattoo two months before getting it done. I’d shared the design and showed her where on my arm I would get it. She’d been excited for me. She liked the drawing I’d texted her. Where the hell was this coming from? “What do you mean?”

“I just don’t really like them. It’s a personal preference. I don’t like the idea of you covered in ink.”

I pictured myself a decade older, carefully curated ink sprinkled over my body. It felt beautiful, powerful. I chose my words carefully. “It’s only one tattoo, and I chose a very specific art style. I honestly really like tattoos.”

“I just feel like your skin is covered.”

I forced a laugh. “I mean, it’s my skin. And the ink is part of my body and my skin now. It’s not like clothes.”

“I know, but clothes I can take off. I want to be able to see you. Tattoos just look like… scales.”

This offended me. “Scales? It’s not a dragon or a sleeve, it’s just a few symbols from books.”

“I know, I just… don’t get anymore, okay? Without checking with me first.”

Um, what? “I did tell you about this one before.”

“I know, but it’s bigger than I expected. Just… I want you to always be sexy. You could get a sexy tattoo — like a quote across your hip. That would be so hot.”

My discomfort grew, but I conceded. “There is this one book quote I was thinking of doing one day…” The conversation moved on.

That was the day I finally began to question.

That was finally the beginning of the end.

If you think that you or someone you know might be a victim of emotional abuse, there is hope — and help available.

Abuse doesn’t always include bruises or 911 calls. Your partner doesn’t have to destroy your belongings or steal your money to hurt you. Someone your friends absolutely love can still be abusive. Abuse does not look the way you think it does.

If you are feeling unhappy, resentful, confined, controlled, or otherwise uncomfortable in your relationship, and you’re wondering whether your partner is emotionally abusive, don’t be afraid to read resources online. You owe it to yourself to find answers to the questions gnawing at your gut.

For more information on emotional abuse, visit https://bandbacktogether.com/master-resource-links-2/abuse-resources/emotional-abuse-resources/.

To get help, visit https://www.thehotline.org/. They have an online chat helpline, phone numbers, and pages to help you understand what abuse is in many contexts.

And yes — emotional abuse victims can absolutely get help from domestic violence resources.

Hold on to hope. Get help. And never stop listening to that gut feeling, even when it doesn’t make any sense. Your brain will understand eventually — for now, let your body do its job and warn you to get out.