I never really had a good understanding of love. Then again – I never really had a good understanding of any emotion. In anticipation of this entry, I needed to undo the emotional work I have done over the past decade to go back and clear the cobwebs from this memory and feel the way I did, again.

Back then, I thought love was this all-consuming, can’t touch the ground, stratospheric emotion that everyone wanted but only the luckiest could get. And because I thought I had it – I should be grateful. It was only years later that I realized I was never able to breathe up there, in the stratosphere, and really I had been choking. After years of therapy, I found myself back on the ground, able to breathe again.

I am assuming that you, my reader, are now anxious to understand why I felt this way. Let me explain.

I thought we had a great love. I also thought that if everything was buttoned up on the outside, giving the illusion of perfection, it did not matter what happened behind closed doors.

My boyfriend and I were seen as a power couple amongst our friend circle. Good looking, good jobs, into the party scene in New York – the perfect match. We moved in together quicker than we should have. I was desperate to keep the facade – as desperate as I was to afford an East Village apartment. When we closed the door, our first night in our new apartment, our relationship began to unravel. Still then, I did not grasp the reality. As long as I “loved,” all other emotions were irrelevant. I pushed those down – suppressed them into a darkness and never felt anything other than “love.” Behind closed doors we fought, things were thrown, threats made. I was left on the street, no keys, wallet, or cell phone – completely locked out. I slept on the floor, the bathtub, I was forced to throw up, to purchase, to submit. I had a curfew. I couldn’t go anywhere alone and if I was alone I needed to be picked up. 

On the outside, we remained perfect. I pulled myself back together because I could not feel anything other than love. One day, when I wasn’t allowed to leave, I went through his belongings. I found a checkbook with several checks written to a law firm. Thousands of dollars not too long ago. Despite my will, I asked about it when he returned and was told about a “crazy” girl with a powerful mother who accused him of rape. I should “trust him,” he said. There was “no proof” – he said. 

Do all scars need to be visible? If they did not believe her, who would believe me? Was she the only one he hurt physically – was I the only one he hurt emotionally? I was disgustingly envious of this girl because a rape kit was proof. Behind my closed doors – who would know?

I started to fight back, after my discovery. I would push him. I was desperate for him to hit me so I could have physical proof; that proof never came.

One night, in November, he locked me in a room in someone else’s home. I tried to run when he brought me food but he grabbed me so hard I screamed – no one did anything but watch the stupid blonde fight with her boyfriend. Hours later, my mother showed up in Pennsylvania to pick me up – my friends not hearing from me, they made a swift decision to call her. To this day, I am so grateful for my best friend. 

I went back to him a few times. Each time thinking about ways to create scars, sometimes on me, sometimes on him, depending on the argument. I lived in that stratosphere for so long – thinking I will never love again if I don’t succeed in fixing this relationship.

I had a moment of clarity in January. The darkness had a beacon of light and a faint whisper that this was the moment to walk away. I crossed Second Avenue, leaving that apartment for the last time and never looked back.

He is married now, with a kid. My survivor syndrome thinks about the girl he raped, the girls he hurt, in between hoping I was the one to change him – but naivete never served me well. 

Instead, I continue to think about myself and how he was the one to change me. The one to make me learn that I am allowed to feel and all emotions are worthy and valid. The one to truly break me, to make me rebuild even stronger. The one who made me realize that not all scars are visible. Part of healing from abuse is getting to know yourself again. While it took me some time to heal my wounds, I can proudly say that I have once again straightened my crown, can finally breathe, and can truly love.