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I never told any of my friends back when he hit me. If I mentioned it then I would have to acknowledge that it happened. That I, a self proclaimed strong, independent women, a feminist, let a man lay his hand on me. I would have to tell people and say out loud that I am still with someone who abused me and I did not step up for myself and drop him. If I never mentioned it, it never happened.
His reputation was very important to him. He was a nice, charismatic man. What if someone thought he would hit his partner? No, we couldn't have that. Besides, wasnt it always justified? Clearly it always involved two people. I must have triggered him or pushed him so his only possible reaction was physical force. It wasn't his fault. We did that together. We were in this together and I wouldn't leave him over one tiny mistake. Or another. Or another.
The first time he hit me, I caught him kissing another woman. It was my fault, wasn't it? I hadn't given him enough attention that day. Talked to a friend one time to often and made him feel lonely so he sought solace in another woman.
I was devastated.
It killed me.
Clearly it must've been my fault. I wasn't enough. Not for him and not for anyone else and I internalized these feelings so much, hated myself, wanted to punish myself for being so less. I cut myself. After years of being free from this curse, I cut myself for what I had made him do.
He found out and he hit me. He said he was in shock. It surprised him and I had hurt myself anyways so there was nothing wrong in hitting me as a reflex. In the face. And then he hit me again. Clearly still in shock to what I had done to myself. It was justified. I brought all these overwhelming feelings over him, it was the only way he could react after all I did.
Nothing, for a year. He must've changed. It was a one time mistake after all. Untill it wasn't and he grabbed me by my hair and pulled and pushed me and nearly made me fall down the stairs.
I had let another man kiss me. It was my fault after all. I got drunk and didn't look out for myself enough and give him the wrong signals. So when he kissed me I pushed him away and I ran and I cried so bad I threw up and had to lock myself up in the bathroom for half an hour before I was able to cry myself to sleep.
I told him the next day. He left me. It was what I deserved after all.
I came crawling back and we talked. He didn't like the way we talked. So he grabbed my hair and pushed and pulled and nearly pushed me down the stairs. At my parents house. Like a normal, nice, charming man would do.
What would our friends say if I told them? No. They only knew about my mistake. What I did was wrong. Letting my guard down around strangers. I had to protect him. Protect his reputation. Protect my own reputation because no one could knew I let a man lay a hand on me. What would they think of me.
Then another time. We had fought. I wanted to talk, wanted him to stay because I didn't want to spent new years without him. It was my fault. I pressured him too much, said too much so he grabbed me, choked me, slammed me against the wall so I'd finally leave him alone because after all it was my fault. I wanted too much.
He ran away, but came back two minutes after midnight and kiss me, only for us to argue hours and hours into the new year.
He dropped his phone on my face while cuddling once, by accident. It was hilarious. It hit me right on my cheek bone and I got a bruise there. I never got bruises before. He hurt me in a way it left no traces and I could show no one. Friends and family asked: "Did he hit you?" No, he would never do that. He dropped his phone. It's hilarious isn't it? That this would leave traces and made you ask but you were never satisfied with the answer. You wouldn't believe me when I said no. Why wouldn't you believe me? He would never do that to me.
And then it was over. He was gone. I was alone. Free. At last. I thought. But even when he left me months ago and I still had to live in the same house until I could move out, but he fucked around, right next to me, on the same parties, with my friends or stranger women he just brought along. Even when he already had a new girlfriend, I was not allowed to have my own life. Of course not. Silly me. Did I really think I was free?
Someone flirted with me on Twitter. It was a joke. I've never met this man before but it was funny and it was wholesome and it gave me the feeling of being desired once again, even if it was only a joke. We had mutual friends and had seen each other on an event once but never talked. It was just a joke. A funny little light in the world that felt so dark and lonely to me back then.
But I wasn't allowed and I should've known that. It would humiliate him. Letting his woman flirt with another man even after we had broken up months ago. What would the others think.
So he choked me and pushed me up a wall by his hands around my throat, slapped me, threw me through the room, left bruises and sprains and I thought I was gonna die. I thought if I didn't run now it would be my last mistake.
So I did and I locked myself up until my friends had called the police.
But who would believe what happened? He was so nice and charismatic. And clearly it must've been mutual. I must've provoked him. He didn't look like someone who did that.
Friends didn't believe me. Even when they saw my arm covered in bruises. When they heard my screams, saw how he treated me. There must've been a reason right? He was never this way towards them. So it must've been me, right?
I'm scared of touch. I can't be around men. My back is permanently injured and I cry when men raise their voice around me.
But it was clearly justified. I deserved this. After all I did.