I Thought He Was the One Until He Gave Me a Slap

At seventeen, I was in an apprenticeship for hairdressing. I thought I had found the boy everyone in middle school dreamed of. When we started dating, the first six months were perfect. He was adorable, charming, and everything I wanted. I didn't know then that the honeymoon phase was just the calm before the storm.

The first warning sign wasn't a subtle comment or a controlling text. It was a slap. I had said no to something, and he hit me. In that moment, I didn't feel fear; I felt confusion. I excused it. I told myself he wouldn't do it again, that it was a mistake. I didn't see the danger behind the blow. My parents knew him, and they seemed to like him, which made it even easier to dismiss the incident. I kept it to myself.

I normalized the violence until a stranger told me no woman deserves this. I realized then that I wasn't just in a bad relationship; I was in a prison of my own making.

Things didn't just escalate; they collapsed the moment we moved in together. The violence became physical and sexual. He would touch me in ways I didn't want, forcing penetration. He would hold my head down with a pillow, suffocating me, and do what he wanted. I was violated three times by my own partner. I didn't call it rape then. I didn't have the words. I thought rape was something that happened to strangers, not to me in my own bed. I normalized the abnormal.

In our daily life, I became his target. There was no reason for the abuse. He would hit me with a broom handle or a jump rope. In the bathtub, he would try to make me slip so I would hit my head against the wall. He would throw plates on the floor if the food wasn't salty enough, insult me, and force me to clean it up. Then, he would starve me. I was so malnourished that I dropped to an extremely low weight. I had no strength to get out of bed or eat. My boss saw the bruises on my face, specifically the blood vessels in my eye that had burst from the force of the slaps. But I wore glasses, and the redness was hidden. I told myself it was nothing.

He isolated me completely. For a year and a half, I was cut off from my friends and my family. He would answer my mother's messages for me, telling her I didn't want to see her anymore. I stopped my hairdressing apprenticeship because I was too weak to work. I was trapped. I knew he had threatened to kill me. I tried calling the police several times, but every time he threatened me, I hung up. I was terrified of the retaliation.

The cruelty extended to our pets. He would tie the cats up at night in their cages and forbid me from feeding them. If I tried to sneak food to them, he would hurt them. I would wake up in the middle of the night to give them a little tenderness, but it wasn't enough. He killed them in front of my eyes in a way I will never forget. He told me it was my fault. That was the ultimate psychological torture: making me believe I was responsible for their suffering.

He would apologize, buying me gifts to make up for the abuse, promising to stop. But he never stopped. The cycle of hot and cold kept me trapped. I felt like I was going crazy. I didn't know how to describe what was happening to me.

The turning point came during a holiday season. I had decided not to go with him and his family. I went back to my parents' house. I needed to be with them, but I was still afraid to tell them the truth. I spoke to an old friend, a man I trusted, and asked for his perspective. He told me that no woman deserves this and that I should leave before it was too late.

That sentence changed everything. The next morning, I told my parents I was leaving. I didn't want to file a formal complaint immediately; the word felt too heavy, too final. I just wanted to file a police report, a "main courante," to create a record. My parents accompanied me to the gendarmerie. The officer saw the fear in my eyes and invited me into his office. For three hours, I gave my first statement. I couldn't bring myself to read the details to my parents, especially the sexual violence. I wanted to protect them from the horror of it.

My sister told me that if they were ready to hear it, they would be ready. So, I read the statement to them. My father's face went blank. He was furious, but I saw the pain in his eyes. My mother went to the bathroom to cry. It was agonizing to finally bare my soul to them after hiding it for so long. I felt a heavy guilt, thinking I had made them suffer by keeping it secret.

Two months later, I filed the formal complaint. I broke up with him over the phone because I was still afraid of his reaction. A few days later, I returned the apartment. We called the landlord to avoid a notice period. I packed his things and put them outside. My sister and her friends waited outside, hidden, just in case things went wrong. He came out, took his things, and we left. It was surprisingly calm, but I knew I had to run.

Looking back, I realize how much of myself I had given up. I had normalized the violence until I couldn't see the danger. I didn't know that I had the right to say no, that I could leave, that I was a victim of a crime. It took a stranger's voice and the courage to finally speak to realize that I was not alone. I am still healing, but I am free.