By Survivor Maliehe
**The following is written by a survivor of domestic violence and abuse, recounting their story. Descriptions and details may be too graphic for some. Names have been changed to protect all involved.**
The summer before freshman year, I moved to a new school.
I didn’t know anyone, didn’t understand the system, and felt like I was completely starting over. But eventually, I found my people.
I became close with a friend who, at one point, opened up to me about a relationship she had recently ended. It had lasted about eight months, and she told me it was abusive. Her boyfriend had pressured her into doing things she wasn’t comfortable with—sexual things—and never seemed to want to spend time with her unless it was for that.
But still, she stayed.
It Never Starts That Way
She said it didn’t start that way. They were friends first, and things felt good in the beginning.
But eventually, it turned into something that made her feel small. I remember listening to her story and thinking, that couldn’t be me. And if it ever was, I’d just leave.
I wouldn’t let someone treat me like that.
Fast forward to the summer before junior year—I met someone. We started talking, and eventually dating. Things felt different in a good way. We didn’t rush into anything, and it didn’t feel overwhelming. We took our time. Their friends told me I was helping them become a better person.
They made me feel seen and valued. It felt like something healthy.
“But slowly, that changed.”
About ten months in, they started to feel distant. They weren’t warm or expressive anymore.
They told me everything was fine, but their actions made me feel like I had to be careful, like I was constantly on edge.
At the same time, their parents made it clear they didn’t approve of me. They made comments about my race, about the scars on my body. At one point, they even told my partner that they thought I was a lovely girl, but that I was “fucked in the head.”
That was devastating to hear—especially after everything I had done to be kind and thoughtful toward them. I’d bring over baked goods, pick up medicine when someone was sick, buy groceries.
I tried to push it all aside, thinking maybe it would pass, but it was clear their parents’ disapproval was wearing on my partner, too.
Everything Started to Change
Soon, their behavior started to change.
They got angry with me over little things, if I got a B on an exam, missed an assignment, or forgot something small.
At the time, I was struggling with untreated ADHD, but instead of showing understanding, they mocked me for it. They embarrassed me in front of our friends—making disgusted faces at me, saying “ew, get away” while laughing. They turned me into a joke, and I convinced myself it was just the stress from their parents that was making them act that way.
Then they got injured—sprained their ankle and couldn’t drive.
I was in the process of buying my own car, but in the meantime, I used theirs to drive us to school.
The Expectation was Intense
Their parents expected me to take over everything. I was suddenly responsible for their rides to practice, to clubs, to friend hangouts—even ones I wasn’t invited to. I changed my whole routine for them, thinking maybe if I did enough, they’d go back to treating me the way they used to.
One week, I still had their car, and while it was parked—without me in it—it was hit by another car.
A hit-and-run.
I told them right away, and at first, they said it was okay. But a few days later, they messaged me while I was at work, saying it was my fault and that I had to pay for the damage. I was shocked. Confused. But I pulled together some cash, went to their house, and gave it to their parents, apologizing. I left quickly before I got too upset.
Later that night, their dad screamed at me—for trying to come back and calmly talk things through. He yelled at me to get out, told me I was dirty, said I was never welcome in their house again.
My partner didn’t come downstairs. Didn’t speak up. Didn’t defend me.
And then, as if that wasn’t enough, they told our mutual friends over the phone that night that they didn’t care if I hurt myself. They said it wasn’t their responsibility, even though we were still together, and I had reached out for help.
“A few days later, at a routine doctor’s appointment, I found out I was pregnant.”
When I told them, they broke up with me. But just two days after, they kissed me.
They said maybe we could try again if things went well, which made me feel like I had to walk on even sharper eggshells to make sure I didn’t do anything to hurt them or make them mad at me. I was confused, but I wanted to believe them. They said they didn’t love me anymore, then took it back. We got back together—but only briefly.
Then they gave me an ultimatum. They said if I didn’t get an abortion, they’d never speak to me again.
That they’d carry hate for me forever. They even told people they hoped I would miscarry. They told me to my face that they wanted to stress me out so much that I would.
And they showed it. They’d slam doors near me, drive recklessly to scare me—speeding, swerving. They grabbed my arms once when I said I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, just to scare me into making the decision they wanted.
I Gave Into Their Demands
Eventually, I took the pills for the abortion. But the instructions I received were unclear, and it didn’t go as planned. One night, I was home alone, in excruciating pain, bleeding uncontrollably. I texted them asking for help—to drive me to the hospital so I wouldn’t have to call 911.
They said they were going to bed. It was 9:45 PM on a weekend.
I ended up needing surgery. I was carrying twins, and they were about 12 to 14 weeks developed. After the procedure, I was able to see them and carry them in a small surgical tray. I went through all of it alone.
Afterwards, I tried to lean on them for support. I thought they’d follow through on what they promised—that if I did what they wanted, we could try again. But they didn’t want to be there emotionally—only physically.
And I accepted it, thinking maybe it would be enough to make them love me again.
They said they still cared about me.
And maybe they did.
But they pushed that care down so far, because their parents disapproved. Any time I expressed hurt, they’d twist the situation around, make me feel like it was my fault. That I wasn’t enough. That I drove them to act the way they did.
“At some point, I couldn’t do it anymore.”
I was emotionally drained. My friends had been begging me for months to walk away, to go no contact. And finally—I did. I ended it in one text. And even though I was heartbroken, I felt relief and like I regained back some of the power that I lost.
That summer, I changed. I matured. I found happiness again—real happiness. And even though I wish I had left sooner, I’m proud that I left at all. That I survived. That I rebuilt myself.
Thinking Back to Who I Was
I think back to the girl I was freshman year—the one who said, “That could never be me.” And now I know… it was me. I just didn’t recognize it until I finally stepped away. Until I stopped justifying, stopped making excuses, and saw things clearly.
If you’re hearing this and you’re unsure about your situation—if something feels off, if you find yourself constantly explaining someone else’s behavior—please trust that feeling. Abuse doesn’t always look obvious. It doesn’t always start loud. Sometimes it grows quietly, underneath moments that once felt like love.
You deserve safety. You deserve peace. You deserve to be believed.
Check These Resources:
- Therapeutic Interventions for Healing From Domestic Violence
- The Hidden Impact of Teen Dating Violence
- Find Support with BTSADV
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