"All my love, all my heart goes to you. Give me the chance to care for you. Let me love you. Let me show you all of me and be the best person I can be for you." At 18, I didn't know any better. At 19, I feared myself more than him. At 20, life flew by. At 21, I paid rent for both of us, I bought him food every day, I drove him to and from his job daily, and I bought him alcohol to feed his addiction because if I didn't, I finally knew better to fear him more than I feared myself. At 21 when he dragged me on the carpet floor, threw all my belongings in the dumpster and lied to the police, I knew it was time to put all my love, all my heart, into myself.

I was a fresh faced 18 year old, ready to see the world. I graduated high school and thought that I was ready for whatever the world was going to throw my way. I was ready to live on my own, to love and be loved by someone. I was ready to learn. At 18, I moved away from home and found myself in a new city, eager, or so I thought.

When my two girlfriends invited me to a party, I didn't know that it would change my life. That night, I met him. Tall, dark curly hair, and drunk, so drunk. That should have been the first thing that pushed me away, but instead as naive as I was, I was drawn to him. I was unaware of what love felt like, so I assumed the fear I had was merely butterflies in my stomach. With rose colored glasses, I fell in love, and the red flags blended into the background.

My life soon revolved around him. I was all in for him from the beginning and that continued through our relationship. He was a philosophy major and I was easily deceived by his mind. We quickly became infatuated with each other. We spent every waking moment together doing homework, questioning the world, cooking meals, watching tv, and fighting. It felt routine and steady, but it never really was.

 

We fought constantly—over everything and nothing. He'd blow smoke into my face, laughing when I flinched and coughed. He didn't use drugs often as he preferred alcohol—but on the rare occasions he did, I never knew until I saw his pupils go wide and dark, his voice slower, different. I wasn't allowed to walk through his front door. He didn't want his roommates to know we were dating, so I'd climb through his window instead, pretending it didn't hurt, convincing myself it was romantic.

 

We'd fight if I didn't text back fast enough, sometimes he would block me for the day if he got mad enough. I'd get calls from him at two in the morning, drunk, and I'd go pick him up without thinking twice. He'd barely remember any of it the next day, but I told myself that the fact he remembered my name, my number, that he called me meant something. At the time, I thought that was love. I thought being the one he turned to in his worst moments was proof. But it wasn't love—it was me mistaking chaos for care, and pain for intimacy.

 

As the months and then years passed, I realized I was in love with a monster. He was angry and I was alone. I struggled with my mental health. I learned from classes, working, volunteering, and so much more about kind people in the world and they showed me he wasn't a good person, yet I stayed.

I graduated with my Bachelor's degree summer of 2021. With no clue what I was going to do after graduating, we moved into an apartment together. Everything continued to get worse—the fighting, the drinking, the hiding. Then I started making new friends at my job. I started going out instead of everything revolving around him. I realized that alcohol doesn't make you an angry person and that it was possible to only have a single drink instead of a whole bottle. As I realized this, his actions continued.

One day I approached my coworker and told her of a fight we had the night before. She looked at me with fear in her eyes. "Get out of that relationship before it's too late." She explained that her husband had been beating her for years and that he used to treat her how I was being treated. Soon enough, it would become what I feared. I questioned: How am I so in love with someone who treats me so terribly?

One day it finally clicked. I'd gotten home from a night with friends to find him drunk as always. Empty beer cans flooded the apartment floor. "I'm really tired. I'm gonna head to sleep early tonight" I told him as I went to the room to create some distance from the alcohol. The fighting began and I left at 2am. I was hit with threats of throwing all my stuff away, breaking my things, and so much more. I left, then returned home with food for him to sober up. "Eat this, sober up, and we'll discuss this in the morning. Good night." For the first time, I was scared for my life. I locked the bedroom door for the first time since living together with him still in the living room.

The room shook.

It was like living in snapshots—flashes of intensity, as if my mind could only catch fragments. I was in the bedroom with the door closed, and then he was screaming inches away from my face. I felt drops of spit land on my cheek, but I was confused whether it was my tears or his saliva as his voice crashed over me like thunder. Behind him was the broken door with pieces of wood on the floor. I looked down at my hand and saw 9-1-1 dialed but not called yet. I saw him wrapping something around his neck, or was it mine as I could barely breathe? I had to make the decision: him or me?

I stood outside in the cold November air, waiting for the police. Trembling, they escorted me back inside—where I'd left him crying on the floor in boxers amid empty beer cans and splintered wood—but when the door opened, he was calmly dressed, watching TV on the couch.

"Hello officers," escaped the snake's mouth as I stood there now shaking with anger.

The officers asked a few questions, then left. They didn't look through the apartment. They didn't see the broken-down door, the empty closet that no longer held anything of mine. And they didn't see how drunk he was.

I needed out. I knew at that moment that I couldn't continue to live this life hidden behind his drunk anger. I knew that my life had purpose, and it wasn't to save him. I had put all of myself into him, but as I continued, I knew I was pouring into him from an empty cup. I didn't love myself the way I loved him. I couldn't support myself the way I did him, and the awareness kept growing inside of me. I lived with him, my life revolved around him, so the decision had to be made: can I choose to love myself instead of him and put all of my love, all of my heart into myself?

I moved out 2 weeks later. Harassment followed as I was bombarded with hate texts, voicemails, and emails. I was struggling, but I knew I had made the right decision as I maneuvered the new changes in my life. I began making friends, I prepared to go to graduate school, and I started new hobbies like yoga and mindfulness to help me through grieving. My whole life changed as I learned to grieve someone who was still alive. I struggled with feelings of guilt, shame, love, hate, betrayal, regret, and so much more. Now, almost 5 years later, I still struggle to love and not put all of myself into someone new. I have started my first real relationship since my ex and feel as though I am finally at the light at the end of the tunnel. I put myself first now more than ever. I know that I can put all of my love into myself and share who I am full heartedly without being hidden away. I can be loved while I learn to love myself with all of who I am.