I Thought Jealousy Meant He Cared Until He Strangled Me

I used to be the girl with the sparkle. My friends would say it, and I believed them. I was young, a mother to a toddler named Marlia, and I was happy. My ex-husband and I had split when Marlia was one, but I wasn't bothered. My flat was always full of friends, and we spent every weekend together. I was a big dreamer, obsessed with the idea of marriage since I was six years old. I had picked out my wedding dress in my head long before I ever met anyone.

That changed on a Saturday night. My friend was on Tinder, and we were swiping on people just for fun. I downloaded the app, and within minutes, I matched with him. He looked older, mature, dressed in nice clothes. I gave him my number, and the early stages were a thousand percent love bombing. He took me to expensive restaurants, paid for nights out, and told me he loved me after only a few meetings. I said it back, though I wasn't sure if I felt it or if I just felt the pressure. He was my boyfriend within three weeks. I had never been treated like that in my life. I worked in a restaurant for minimum wage, and suddenly I was in bars I couldn't afford, staying in nice hotels. I felt lucky. I thought I was loved.

I thought I was having the best time ever because I was with someone who took me to places I couldn't afford, but I was with someone that was horrible. He never respected me, he…

But around the sixth month, the comments started. He told me what I should wear. One day, I sent him a picture of my outfit, and he said he wouldn't want his girlfriend wearing that. It was just a bit revealing. I changed my clothes and sent a new picture back, even though he hadn't explicitly told me to. He would call me names, swearing aggressively, calling me a slag. He wanted to go on my phone whenever he wanted. He would ask for money to go somewhere, but if I wanted to go somewhere he didn't like, he wouldn't give me the money. I was struggling financially, and without him, I felt like I would have nothing.

The first time he put his hands on me was on my birthday in September. We were at a bar on the Thames. I had declined a shot, but some corporate lads next to us invited us to join. We talked to them. He had warned me earlier that I shouldn't talk to boys, even if they just asked where the toilet was. When we left, I went on my private Instagram messages and saw a boy asking where we went. I swiped it off quickly. He saw me do it. In the car, he grabbed me, ragged me, and dragged me. When we got to his apartment, he made me message the boy weird things, asking if we had kissed. I told him I wanted to go home. He said if I left, I had to pay him the full price of what he spent on my birthday. I didn't have that money. So I stayed.

The next morning, there was a cake, flowers, and a designer bag. He lit the candle and told me I could blow it out. Then he went to the shower. He told me to look at my presents, but then he said he was taking them away because I hadn't behaved. I was a naughty child. The gifts were conditional. He didn't get them to treat me nice; he got them to control me.

There were five times he physically put his hands on me. The first three were ragging, leaving marks I had to cover with makeup. I didn't think I was in danger. I thought he was just angry. Later, he told me not to go to my Christmas party at the hotel because if a boy tried to talk to me, I would lose my job, and it would be my fault. I didn't go. He broke up with me then. I was upset, but I felt I hadn't made enough effort.

Six weeks later, he called me. He wanted to sort it out. I felt strong and told him no. He kept ringing. I told him I was seeing someone else. He lost it. He screamed. He came to my flat, grabbed me, and ran up the stairs. His friend saw him through the glass of the building and ran up after him. I called the police. He had brought a new sofa because he didn't like the thought of any other boy sitting on my old one. He grabbed my phone to hang up on the police, went to the kitchen, got a knife, and stabbed holes in every cushion on the sofa. He was arrested.

I felt bad again. I thought if I hadn't told him I was seeing someone, he wouldn't have done that. I wanted to drop the charges. I didn't want to go to court. But then, I agreed to meet him. He was drunk. He asked me to swear on Marlia's life that I would never go back to the boy I was seeing. I said I couldn't do that. He saw red. He pushed me to the floor, got on top of me, and put his hands on my neck. He strangled me. I don't remember how long it went on. I didn't pass out. I got up, speechless. He told me to get up because I looked a mess.

I felt violated. I felt horrible. I messaged my friend, sending voice notes of what he was saying. He asked why I was crying. I told him he hurt me and scared me. He said it was my fault. I sat there for an hour, terrified. I looked in the mirror and saw his fingerprints on my neck. I thought, what if he gets angry again? What if I die? I grabbed my bag, opened the door, and ran. He lived on the seventh floor of a tower block. I ran down the stairs. By the time he caught up with me, the police ran in and got hold of him. He was crying, saying, "Don't do this to me again."

He knocked me worse than anything he had done because I was supposed to protect Marlia, and now I felt like I wasn't. That was the wake-up call. I heard it from the police, and it was about Marlia, not me. I decided I would never drop the charges again. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to a year in prison.

It's hard. I know he deserved it, but I just wanted him away. My friend told me to speak out. For a long time, I didn't want to. But then I realized that 96 percent of my followers are women. If I helped one person, it might make me feel better too. I never realized how many people go through this until I started getting messages from young girls, middle-aged women, older women. So many people said they were going through it.

Even now, I can't find the words. It's bittersweet. Some messages say it helped them, but I look at them and wonder how so many women are treated like this. The red flags were controlling what I wore, who I spoke to, where I went, and going through my phone, especially when I was asleep. Love shouldn't hurt. Someone that loves you should never hurt you.

My friends used to say I had a sparkle. I feel like it is coming back, but maybe in a different way. I don't think I'll ever be the same person. You never are. You change whether it's good or bad. I know I'll never be that same sparkle, but I would definitely say I'm sparkly again.