I like to give people second chances. I made the mistake of giving him four years.
Abuse is such a slippery slope. Everything is perfect except for the time he told you to shut up. Everything is fine even though you force yourself to cry nightly so the fights will end sooner. Everything is nice except when, despite your whispered protests, he finger fucks you in the backseat while his parents drive. It's brainwashing. It's manipulation. It's the small things, like telling me I'm beautiful while reminding me that other people think I'm ugly. Like saying I'm distrustful and cold when I tell him I think he's lying.
His feelings are my responsibility. He's only mad because he cares. He's only protective because he loves me.
Lies I told myself so often I mistook them for the truth.
Do you know how it truly feels to be tired? When your brain feels like it's half its size, baked to desiccation by constant stress and zero sleep? You forget your words as soon as they tumble out of your mouth.
Everything is surreal.
You are a third party observer to your own life.
So when you're finally easing into sleep but your boyfriend keeps nudging you awake or grabbing your nipples or sticking his hands down your pants because you haven't had sex with him yet, you have sex with him. Even when you've told him you're exhausted. Even when you've told him "another time". You could already be dreaming and there's the elbow in your back again. The pinching of your arm fat. There's the pitiful whimper of "aw but we haven't had sex in three days" or "You never want to have sex".
I was so busy surviving I never thought to leave.
I'm amazed by and ashamed of my inability to recognize the situation I was in. But who ever thinks their boyfriend is their rapist? Who ever thinks someone they know is being serially raped? My friends saw how exhausted and stressed I was, commenting daily on the bags multiplying under my eyes. My parents watched me grow frantic if there was a situation in which I couldn't answer his texts. At night, I would hear their footsteps stop outside my door as I sobbed into my phone. They never stopped for long.
I'd like to take this moment to acknowledge that folks of all genders have been victims, and folks of all genders have been perpetrators. I've had women suddenly grab my breasts and then laugh it off, somehow using "they were just out there" as a passable excuse. I've heard far too many stories from men that have started with "I didn't want to have sex with her, but...". Stories of women drunkenly banging on doors for the men inside to come out and fuck them. Stories of women laughing at men who didn't want to have sex. The first time my friend had sex, he was a high schooler and a college woman raped him. He told his friends. They laughed.
My situation is not unique. A narrative from last year's IHH put into words everything I had been feeling but was too afraid to admit. This woman's story of confusion, betrayal, and deep seated regret reflected all that I had failed to confront on my own. So many suffer from abuse, and so few come forward. If your friend looks like they're in a bad place, speak to them. Tell them they are not their relationship. Tell them it's never too late to make a change. I always wished someone would've reached out to me. In times of doubt, I thought, "if someone would just ask me, I'll tell them everything"...