I was 15 when I experienced domestic violence first hand. 15, yeah, I know. I didn’t think it could happen to someone so young either. Maybe that’s why I ignored the signs for so long… four years too long to be exact.
My freshman year of high school (in a really small town), I got in a relationship with a senior boy who was 2.5 years older than me. I remember repeating, “He’s a senior but we’re only two years apart”, too many times to count. He was the class clown and loved by everyone. That’s probably why no one believed me when I finally left him.
The abuse didn’t start until about a year and a half after we started dating. Before this, we had bickered and fought, but it was done in a healthy way. However, when I started getting older and closer to graduating high school, my ex, who was incredibly insecure, realized that I was no longer a young girl he could manipulate and that scared him.
It started with him restricting my phone access. He kept tabs on every one and every conversation I was having. I chopped this up to, “Oh, he’s worried I’ll cheat on him. I’ll just prove I won’t.” But then, it wasn’t just boys I wasn’t allowed to talk to. He would read all my conversations with friends and family to make sure I wasn’t talking bad about him.
Eventually, it escalated to restricting me from even seeing my friends and family. At this point, I basically lived with him and his family, as being in my own home surrounded by my supportive family made it harder for him to control me. I was to spend every second of everyday with him. And, yes, that even meant missing school to be with him.
The young and naive me brushed all this off, because at this point I did like spending time with him. He made me feel wanted, needed, in a way I didn’t think I could get from anywhere else.
Things took a turn for the worst at the end of my junior year. He started screaming, I mean SCREAMING, in my face. He started pushing me against the wall. He started sexually assaulting me. He started slapping me across the face during fights. He started disallowing me from leaving his house. He even told me I wasn’t allowed to go to my dream college, which I had been accepted to, because I’d cheat on him if I did. I couldn’t get a job. I wasn’t allowed to get my drivers license because “he can just drive me everywhere.” At this point, I knew what was happening was wrong, but I truly felt trapped. I felt like I was locked in this little house, unable to escape. He controlled every single aspect of my life.
My breaking point was when, after a rather intense overreaction from him about me talking to new people he didn’t approve of, he tried to break down the door to the bathroom I was hiding in. I remember sitting on the bathroom floor, shaking, crying, terrified that I was about to be seriously hurt in the name of “love”. Scared he’d break the door down, something we couldn’t easily explain to his parents, I quickly unlocked the door, ducking under him and running to the back porch which I hid under. I heard him screaming my name, swearing he was going to hurt himself because of “what I was doing”. Despite all this, I still walked back in the house, apologizing for whatever I did to him to make this ordeal end, and consoling him as if he was the one who had just been chased down.
After this, I reached out to one of my best friends, making sure to delete every trace of the messages, who encouraged me in the weeks following to leave him. Eventually, with my friends support, I left him while high on confidence on a random weekday after he picked me up from school. I remember sitting in his passenger seat, hand on the unlock button just in case, telling him I didn’t want to be with him anymore. I remember him automatically assuming I had cheated on him, and telling me to get out his car. I got out, he drove off going way too fast, and I was forced to walk in his house and tell his parents I had left him and that I was packing up my stuff. My mom, who I didn’t tell about the abuse until weeks after I left him, came and drove me home, where I called my friend to tell them the news. I had DONE IT. But it wasn’t over.
For weeks following, even after blocking him on whatever I could, my ex found ways to reach out to me to tell me he was planning on killing myself, and that everyone would know it was because I cheated on him. I knew that was the narrative he was pushing, because some of my old friends made sure I knew. Even when I told people about the abuse I endured at the hands of him, few people believe me. “He wouldn’t do that,” they said. Well he would, and he did.
Eventually, the messages died down. I got in a new relationship with the man I’m currently engaged to. I started moving on. But the effects of domestic violence still followed me. I didn’t go to my dream school. I didn’t get my licenses for years. Some of my best friends took his side, further spreading the narrative that I was a cheater and he was the victim.
It’s been over 3 years since I left him, and I’m still scared to speak out about my experience. I’m scared that no one in my small town will believe me, because they didn’t believe me the first time I tried to tell them. I’m scared no one will care because I’m happy now. I’m scared of the drama that comes with speaking out.
But I am also proud. I’m proud of 17 year old me for being so strong and leaving. I’m proud of 18 year old me for going to college. I’m proud of 19 year old me for getting her drivers license. I’m proud of 20 year old me for becoming independent enough to move out of my parents. And I’m proud of 21 year old me for sharing my story with you today.
Domestic Violence can happen at any age, to anyone, and by anyone. I may be strong enough to share my story now, but the young girl living inside me, still trying to heal, wasn’t. And shouldn’t of had to be. #BreakTheSilence
