He’s charming and kind when you meet; of course he is. You’d never date anyone who wasn’t nice to you.  

By the time he opens himself up enough for you to see the dark pit of anger he carries within, you are already inextricably linked. You live together. You have pets, a checking account. You have a life with him. And besides, it’s not that bad. He just has a temper – that’s all.  

Sometimes his rage frightens you. When he sees that you’re scared, he laughs. You’re overreacting – you know this. Of course he would never hurt you. He’s allowed to be angry – especially when you’re so difficult to live with.  

He starts destroying things that belong to you. He demands sex even when you aren’t in the mood – says it’s your job and the release will make him feel better, more relaxed. You tell him, once, that it shouldn’t be this way. He laughs at you. You’ve brought this upon yourself, he says. If only you were sweeter, prettier, thinner, more compliant, less lazy, less stubborn, the relationship would be perfect. 

You start to wonder if you are going crazy. He says you’re making it all up.  

You find a book that lists the warning signs of relationship violence. It sounds alarmingly familiar. But then you remember all the times he’s told you this isn’t abuse, that in fact it’s YOU who’s abusing HIM, and you’re lucky he puts up with it at all. And besides, he’s never hit you. Maybe a shove here or there – but that’s normal, right? That’s just what passion looks like. …Right?  

You don’t have any friends anymore, and you hardly ever see your family – they live an hour away, and he doesn’t like it when you’re gone from the house for too long. You feel increasingly isolated; he says this is because you are socially inept and no one likes you. At least you have me, he says. 

 Sometimes he is lovely to you. Sweet and kind and caring. You fall in love with him all over again. 

The first time he hits you, you can almost convince yourself it was an accident. He didn’t mean to swing at you. At least, not that hard. The black eye in the mirror, the way your face is swollen and purple and raw – it wasn’t intentional. Things just got out of hand. Relax – it’s not a big deal.  

He hits you again. It’s not a big deal.  

And again. It’s not a big deal.  

He pins you on the floor and chokes you until you panic, wondering if you might die. It’s not a big deal.  

He cries, says he’s sorry, tells you how much he loves you. He promises things will be different. You love him. You want to believe him, so you do.  

He invites a group of strangers from an internet hookup site to come over to your house and have sex with you because he gets off on watching things like that. You cry and tell him you don’t want to. He won’t take no for an answer; instead, he sits back and watches as five strange men take turns raping you on a mattress in the living room. It’s not a big deal.  

He coerces you into having sex with strangers who pay him for the use of your body. It’s not a big deal.  

He tells you he will slit your throat if you don’t shut up. It’s not a big deal.  

Meanwhile, it’s like you’re underwater. You keep trying to swim for the surface, but everything feels heavy and slow and muffled. By the time you finally break through, feel the air on your skin, and see, clearly, what is happening – that it IS a big deal – you can’t imagine how the hell you’ll ever be strong enough to get out.  

Years pass. You try to leave. You always go back. Ten times, twenty.  

Finally, you stay gone. It takes every ounce of strength you possess not to go back. You hate yourself for loving him still.  

You hurt. You struggle. You take deep breaths and spend a lot of time crying. Somehow, you survive. 

You survive. 

-Ali (she/they)