I Said I Would Never Put Up With A Physically Abusive Relationship — Until I Was In One

The first time I experienced physical abuse was during my freshman year of college, when my now ex-boyfriend hit me as we stood outside of my dorm.

He slapped me across the face so hard it felt like dry ice was stuck to my cheek. What had just happened didn't quite register as quickly as his hand moved, and all I could do was stand there stunned with tears down my face and my lunch now spilled on the ground.

He continued with emotional and verbal abuse, screaming at me because we had just gotten caught by the front desk for breaking the overnight guest policy (we exceeded the 48-hour rule by a few days) and because I tried to talk it out with the RA instead of storming out with him. What was even worse is that he denied hitting me, eventually making me apologize for what I thought he had done.

Just when I began thinking that maybe I was going crazy, a floormate came to check on me later that day. My boyfriend had been yelling at me so loudly, that this friend was able to hear (and see) us from where he was on the 11th floor behind closed windows.

I continued to stay in that physically and emotionally abusive relationship for four years, and this incident was only the beginning.

I'm going to try to explain why women stay in abusive relationships:

This is the part where you're probably thinking, "Why didn't you leave that psycho?"

I also had never understood why women would ever allow themselves to stay in such horrible situations. It wasn't until I experienced domestic violence firsthand that I realized, unfortunately, it's never that easy to leave.

It has nothing to do with who the person is, whether they're weak or strong-willed, educated or uneducated. The psychological effect of abuse is so powerful, that it can turn anyone, male or female, into someone completely and utterly powerless.

According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, one in three women has been physically abused by an intimate partner.

The dynamics of a toxic relationship are far more complex than any other because they involve someone you deeply care about and oftentimes love. I would never tolerate that kind of treatment from a stranger, but when it comes to a significant other, the signs of emotional abuse especially become much more confusing and messy and not so black and white.

The NCADV also says that domestic violence is most common among women between 18 and 24, the same window I fell in at the time.

And it makes sense. It's just around the time when people begin getting into their first serious relationships.

My ex and I started dating toward the end of our senior year in high school, and then we both went off to separate colleges on opposite ends of California.

I think distance is what made things even more complicated. He was extremely jealous, insecure, and paranoid when it came to fidelity, which wasn't apparent when we first met. I fell for his confidence, thoughtfulness, and intelligence, and those qualities weren't easily forgotten when I learned about his anger.

In his moments of sweetness, I convinced myself that he did care for me and that it was my responsibility as his partner to make him feel secure about our relationship — even if that meant I had to stop talking to my friends and family, send him photos of where I was at all times, and reject all invitations outside of my dorm room.

He was manipulative and all-controlling.

I wanted to prove that I was a faithful and devoted girlfriend, and I was willing to do whatever it took to avoid fighting. It wasn't unusual to be woken up by a call from him at 3 in the morning, hearing him call me names screamed from the other line.

He called because he couldn't stand the thought of me being with other guys before him. He always assumed I was cheating on him, which made him feel like I needed to be constantly punished. And eventually, I was somehow convinced of the same.

Verbal, emotional, and psychological abuse were common in the first two years of our relationship, and the physical side increasingly worsened with time.

I remember one particular fight so vividly when he repeatedly punched my arm over and over so hard as I was driving that I couldn't move it.

I was pleading for him to stop and when he didn't, I intentionally ran a red light so that the cop I passed would stop us. He was able to convince the police that his hysterically crying girlfriend was unstable and crazy and needed to be taken away from him.

They let us go with a warning and I was shaking with fear when they left, afraid of how I was about to be punished. He shattered my car windows with his skateboard, but of course, he would wait until we got home to really give it to me.

He slammed me against the wall and strangled me, and I recall thinking that he was going to kill me.

We made up, of course. He saw how purple and brown my arm was and apologized, and that was that.

I transferred schools and moved in with him by our third year together. I can't tell you how many times the cops came to our door because of calls from our neighbors and how many times I had to lie and say that it was just an argument. As much as I wanted to turn him in myself, this was still my boyfriend. We were both great students with bright futures, and I couldn't help but be sympathetic to that.

I was in a new city where I knew no one else — where would I go? How could I tell my parents about what I was going through? Who would take my calls after years of being shunned?

In his moments of clarity, he also knew how dangerous he could be. So, he started seeing a therapist on campus and we began to treat his "demons," as he'd call it, as a mental illness, which complicated things further.

I couldn't just leave someone I loved who also desperately needed help. It ran in his family; he was a replica of his short-tempered father, and it saddened me that he was unable to be somebody different.

But a person can only take so much, and everyone has a breaking point.

I started to fight back and hit back, and I'm not proud of it.

I had so much anger built up inside of me that when he provoked me, I didn't hold back and I didn't want to.

Our fights would end with us both exhausted, breathing heavily on the ground. My psyche was damaged beyond repair and I felt as though I was going insane, going through the same fights and accusations day in and day out. You'd think that being tackled into the bedpost and coming out with a golf-ball-size lump on the back of your head instead of a broken neck would be enough to snap you out of it. But it didn't.

Eventually, I became so numb to it all and accepted that I was stuck. This was my life now. Working 30 to 40 hours a week and balancing internships as a full-time student, I didn't have enough energy to come home and continue the battle.

He stopped having an effect on me, and he didn't like that. A lifeless face would just stare back at his yelling when it would normally be able to get a reaction.

By our fourth year, I was too physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted to even figure a way out. He refused to accept the fact that I wanted to leave, that I hated him more than I had ever loved him. He would plead and plead to make me stay, and I would because I didn't know any other option.

Eventually, we both moved to San Francisco after graduation and we got into another massive blowout at our new apartment. But this time, he called my parents and left the worst possible voicemail you could imagine.

When he left for work the next morning, and as I was getting ready, my mother called and said, "I'm getting on the next plane; pack a bag and leave now." I didn't argue back or try to convince her that everything was OK like I normally would have — I said, "OK," and followed her instructions. I never went back.

I fought hard over the next few months to get a restraining order because the calls and threats were nonstop. Little did I know that it was my responsibility to prove to the courts that I needed protection. Eventually, I won and was granted a five-year order against him. Some days, I question whether this piece of paper is enough to keep him away. And I also wonder what happens next when the order is up.

I Said I Would Never Put Up With A Physically Abusive Relationship — Until I Was In One

Domestic violence can happen to anyone.

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