Updated: November 21, 2018
Originally Published: July 17, 2017
I see friends on social media openly discussing their relationship struggles—every argument, every harsh word. I always found it crass and never thought I could do the same. With so many family members and my fiancé’s relatives following my page, sharing our personal issues would be mortifying.
From the outside, our life appears picture-perfect. Our relationship journey is chronicled through cheerful photos: from our early bar-hopping adventures to my pregnancy and the birth of our son, culminating in a lovely spring photo shoot at the park. We seem so blissful, with smiles all around. Our baby beams between us, and the sun is shining brightly.
But the reality is far from that.
Though our relationship seems pleasant and ordinary—filled with family gatherings, laughter, and playtime with our adorable child—something is amiss. He carries a simmering anger within him. He may not inflict physical harm, but I know about abuse. I’ve experienced it firsthand. Abuse is living in a constant state of fear, isn’t it? It’s about being quiet and submissive, terrified of provoking a reaction that could lead to violence. It’s about being labeled as “stupid” and internalizing that blame, believing that everything is your fault.
I recognize what abuse looks like.
He can be kind for stretches of time, making me believe he’s genuinely caring. After all, he works hard for our family, leaving every morning to pay the bills. He doesn’t physically harm me—so isn’t that enough? But the anger is always lurking beneath the surface.
During my pregnancy, I often found myself repeating, “Please don’t curse at me.” My requests to be treated with respect became a constant refrain. I try my best to avoid triggering his anger. He doesn’t hit me or call me names, so it doesn’t seem like abuse.
He insists that this is simply who he is. Being in the Army, he claims, has shaped how he communicates. His words cut deep, echoing the harsh voice from my past that tells me I’m not good enough—an echo of my mother’s influence.
During heartfelt conversations, I express how his words wound me. For a while, he makes an effort to change. I allow myself to forget his true nature, but he eventually reverts to his old ways. The anger returns, and I question whether this is how all men treat their partners. My instincts scream that it isn’t normal, yet my upbringing convinces me otherwise. I watch my child absorb our dynamic, and my heart shatters.
Once again, the cycle repeats—the angry words, the belittling, and I finally reach my breaking point. I remove my engagement ring and silently cancel our wedding plans. I bid farewell to the wedding dress my aunt is altering for me. I fight against the urge to make excuses for him.
I refuse to let this be my life. Tears flow as I grapple with the reality of being a single mother. I dread the thought of my son growing up in a fractured home. I had envisioned a joyful family life for him—dinners together, joyful holidays and birthdays. I mourn the dreams I had for us. I wanted this happy ending so desperately, but I realize I chose the wrong path.
I picture another little girl living through my experiences, and it tears me apart to think of her enduring the same hurtful words I endure. They don’t come daily or weekly, but they always resurface, regardless of his promises. I fear my son might someday echo the same hurtful sentiments, perpetuating a cycle of dysfunction.
I’m scared. Financial instability looms over me, and I don’t know how to support us, but I must find a way. I plan to seek counseling, though I’m not optimistic. I’m caught in a painful limbo, living in the home where we began constructing the future I desired, while simultaneously saying goodbye to that dream, piece by piece.
He lounges on the couch, engrossed in his favorite show. He isn’t angry at this moment; he wants to be a good father and partner, and perhaps he will be for a while longer. But I know the cycle will repeat.
As a child, I didn’t have a choice, and all I yearned for was the power to choose. Now that I have that choice, I didn’t anticipate how difficult it would be. I find myself clinging to the storm, holding on to the illusion of a happy life.
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Summary:
This article captures the harrowing experience of living with a verbally abusive partner. The author reflects on the façade of a happy relationship while grappling with the reality of emotional turmoil. Through personal anecdotes, the piece highlights the internal conflict of wanting a stable family life for their child while acknowledging the toxic dynamics at play. The narrative emphasizes the importance of recognizing abuse in its various forms and the difficult choices that come with breaking free from it.