Somehow, it was never really clear to me that I was in one. I distinctly remember one day asking a friend if she had arguments in her relationship with her partner. It felt like I was trying to find out how many fights were allowed for my relationship to be considered normal. It did not feel normal.
I knew something was off. I recognised that feeling of constantly walking on eggshells. No matter what step you take, you have to be prepared for the worst.
You see, I was aware of what domestic violence is. But was it really happening to me? I never had a black eye; my ex was very conscious of the idea that you shouldn’t touch a woman. However, that day he threw me on the bed, put a pillow over my face, and punched it. I knew that was wrong, violent, and appalling, especially coming from someone who claims to love me dearly.
“Why did you hit me?” I asked. “I didn’t touch YOU; I punched the pillow,” he said.
Some call it semantics, but nothing changed the fact that the gaslighting at that time won over my sanity. For me, that episode, like many others in my life, went on to be completely forgotten.
After I had gone to bed, I couldn’t sleep; I couldn't believe that had actually happened. I went over every single second of that episode in my head, trying to see what I had done wrong.
Luckily, the person who is writing now is not the same as the one who was attacked back then. I can tell the young me now, 'You have done nothing wrong; I am here for you, and I'll help you get through this.'
When I started to feel that it was not normal, I, of course, went on Google to search: 'Am I in an abusive relationship?' Everything that came up, I refused to relate to. 'This isn't me! After all, he only touched me once—with a pillow.'
And questions kept coming up:
Has he ever used weapons or objects to hurt you?
Has he ever threatened to kill you or someone else, and you believed him?
Has he ever attempted to strangle/choke/suffocate/drown you?
Has he ever mistreated an animal or a family pet?
I felt guilty for even thinking I was abused. After all, the answers to those questions were so far from classifying my experience as domestic violence. I closed the laptop. This is not me.
And the relationship carried on.
For years. I endured emotional and psychological abuse, control, financial and technological abuse, coercion—you name it. He did hit me again, several times, but again, denial then forgotten. Until I couldn't take it anymore.
It reached a breaking point where, as I was driving one day, the thought of crashing the car into a wall crossed my mind. I didn't want to go back there. I was scared, but even more terrified of approaching suicidal thoughts.
At some point, I snapped out of it and thought, 'What the hell are you doing?'
That was the wake-up call for me. I decided to plan my escape. I reached out to Refuge, consulted with a lawyer, secured emergency accommodation, waited for him to go to work, and then I was gone.
I often wonder what would have happened if I hadn't come across those questions. For me, domestic violence meant ending up with a black eye. But it's nothing like that. And that realisation is how this blog started. I want to shout to the world every little detail, every example of what abuse really is. Because even if it doesn't manifest physically, the mind can be equally wounded. A black eye heals quickly, but a scar on your soul is more difficult to mend.
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