I Thought Jealousy Was Love Until He Threatened My Parents

Babette once told me that you should leave at the first blow. But in my case, there was a whole procedure before the first hit ever landed. It started with jealousy, constant put-downs, and a perpetual devaluation of who I was. When I tried to tell him that this wasn't normal, that his words hurt, he would suddenly turn into the victim. He would say he was feeling terrible, that he was sick, and he would make me feel pity for him. I would think, "He loves me so much, I have to take care of him."

But the moment I insisted that his behavior was unacceptable, the violence began. It wasn't always a punch to the face. Sometimes it was a candle placed wrong, a fork in the wrong spot. He would come home angry and throw me to the ground. Or he would throw me down the stairs. I would spend three days, a week, sometimes fifteen days just trying to recover my energy. And once I had enough strength to try to leave again, he would hit me harder.

He made me believe that if I left, he would kill my parents, so I stayed trapped in a cycle where my only escape felt like death.

I remember the day I tried to end my life. He found out, and he laughed. He was happy because he had dominated me completely. When I tried to leave again, the threats escalated. He told me he would kill my parents. He threatened to kill my mother, my father, even my cats. I couldn't just walk out the door because I knew there would be collateral damage. He made it clear that leaving meant my family would pay the price.

This went on for about a year, with all the back-and-forth. I hid the bruises. I became a specialist in falling softly, in putting on turtlenecks, in hiding things with my hair. I stopped answering the phone. I smiled at people when everything was falling apart inside. The worst part was that when we were in public, he was charming. No one would have believed me. In my absence, he told people I was depressed, that I was the one who was sick. He imprisoned me from the inside, but he also imprisoned me from the outside by changing how everyone saw me.

People often say women stay because of Stockholm syndrome, because they love their partner too much. That wasn't it. If I started to speak, he would take my phone. If I tried to look for work, even a small step, he would beat me so badly I couldn't get up. I was in the basement, broken everywhere, sometimes even urinating on myself because I couldn't move. Once, he threw me into a pile of wood in the stairs, and I couldn't get up. Another time, when I tried to leave, he pulled me out of his car and smashed my head against the vehicle.

The violence escalated to strangulation in a bathtub. I couldn't scream. I was humiliated, degraded, and stripped of my identity. I was an opera singer, and I had lost my voice. I was on welfare, and I felt like nothing. I thought the only way out was to die. Every time I tried to escape, he caught me, and the price I paid was so high that I tried to kill myself several times. He laughed at my attempts because it meant he still controlled me.

I was so weak that I couldn't tell what was true and what was false. My discernment was gone. I was terrified for my life. Then, a friend saw the bruises. She didn't talk to me like a victim. She talked to me like the person I used to be before the abuse. She told me, "You know, one day he will push you down the stairs, break your spine in two, and you will end up in a wheelchair. You won't have a voice. And that man will be your caregiver. Is that what you want?"

My spine bristled. I realized my life could be even worse than the nightmare I was living. She told me, "You still have two legs. You can run away, and we will help you."

That was the turning point. I called the government helpline. She had already alerted my parents. My father lost his temper when he saw the truth, and they came to get me. I was finally protected by my family. A psychologist explained the cycle of violence to me, the honeymoon phase, the tension, the explosion. She helped me rationalize what had happened. But the fear remained. Even now, when I speak, I am afraid of him.

He would also play the victim, threatening to kill himself in front of me. He would say, "If I die, it will be your fault," and even leave a letter in the house accusing me. He would switch between being a violent abuser and a desperate man who wanted to die. He made me believe I deserved it. He told me I was nothing, that no one would ever want me again. The variations in his character made me lose my grip on reality. The fatigue, the pain, the constant fear—it all distorted my world until I couldn't tell the truth from the lies.

I am still ashamed of the shame he made me feel. But I am here. I am speaking. And I tell women: leave. Don't wait for the first blow. The process before the violence is the trap, and once you are in it, the only way out is to realize that you are not the problem. You are the victim of a system designed to break you. I am still afraid, but I am alive, and I have my voice back.