B.Løvetann

This part of my story spans eight years.
Eight years filled with experiences, naivety, mistakes—and an unshakable belief that, eventually, everything would work out.
If only I was patient enough.
If only I waited.
We moved in with him just a few months after we officially became a couple.
I would later come to regret that.
Once he had me, more and more of who he really was began to emerge.
He struggled with drug addiction.
In the beginning, he told me it was only something he did occasionally. I had no reason to believe otherwise. I had no experience with drugs—no knowledge to help me understand what was happening and no ability to recognize the warning signs.
Sometimes, I joined in.
Other times, I said no.
It feels strange to think about now, considering I didn’t even drink alcohol at the time. And yet, I allowed myself to be pulled into it.
My curiosity was stronger than my common sense.
But I also experienced the brutal reality of addiction up close.
Living with someone struggling with addiction takes more from you than you could ever imagine.
It takes pieces of you.
Bit by bit.
When you find yourself in that kind of environment, you see how quickly control can slip away.
That was what frightened me the most.
How short the distance can be between “fun” and addiction.
Today, I am grateful for that insight. Before this, I was probably quite judgmental.
Now I know better.
People struggling with addiction are still people. People who often end up there because of emotions, experiences, psychological wounds, and mental health struggles. Not everyone is able to cope with everything on their own, and many end up self-medicating.
I can understand that.
I genuinely feel for them.
Because the truth is simple:
It is easy to get pulled in.
It is incredibly difficult to find your way back out.
By the time I realized how bad the situation truly was, it already felt too late.
I was already in too deep.
I was constantly given promises that everything would get better.
And every single time, I believed them.
Yet I felt less and less worthy.
He made me feel like I was the worst person anyone could possibly have in their life.
One time, he stood inches from my face, screaming at me.
We are talking about a man almost two metres tall and twice my weight.
I was frightened and tried to push him away.
I pushed him several times.
Eventually, I slapped him.
Silence.
Then he went downstairs to the basement.
I was left sitting there with the feeling that I had done something unforgivable.
I had hit him.
Later, he proudly admitted that the entire situation had been a test.
He had wanted to see how far he could push me.
He had hoped I would hit him.
While I spent a week crying and apologizing, he laughed at me.
And told the story to everyone.
Another time, during an argument, I tried to punch him.
I missed.
He claimed I had hit him.
He had grabbed my arms and pushed me backwards. Somehow, my earring was pressed painfully into the side of my head.
At the time, I already had a bad shoulder.
The pain became unbearable.
I told him.
When I finally managed to get free, I turned my back and tried to walk away.
He grabbed my injured shoulder and pulled me around.
That was when I tried to hit him.
From that moment on, I was “the violent one.”
I also threw cups and other things onto the floor in sheer frustration when he refused to listen to me.
I was told that I was “psychologically breaking him down” simply because I tried to put into words the things I was unhappy about.
He loved telling other people about this.
My reactions became his proof that I was the problem.
What he never told them about was the coffee cup he threw at me, which shattered against the wall behind me.
He never told them about the times he spat on me.
About the time he pushed me so hard that I went flying across the kitchen floor.
Or about all the times he tried to push me down the stairs.
He never told them how he would walk away in the middle of arguments.
How I wasn’t allowed to talk too much when people came to visit because I “took over”—while at the same time being criticized for being too quiet when we had company.
How I was told that I initiated intimacy too often.
And, at the same time, not often enough.
What he never told them was how he would stay awake all night watching porn after rejecting me.
That he was on Tinder.
That he paid for sex.
And that somehow, he still managed to make it all my fault.
Even his infidelity was explained by something I had done.
Early in our relationship, I had spoken to a male friend behind his back. My friend had asked me for a picture of my ass. I didn’t respond to that request, but we continued talking about other things.
I know it was unnecessary.
But it was used against me for years.
In fact, he continued using it against me even three years after our relationship had ended.
It became a stain I could never wash away.
Everything became my fault.
Simply because I was who I was.
Whenever I tried to explain my side of things—why I reacted the way I did—I was told that it was nothing more than a defence mechanism.
That I needed to stop shifting the blame onto him.
If he couldn’t criticize my words, he would criticize my body language.
Even the way I stood while speaking to him could be used against me.
And then there were all the little comments.
“Everyone says you are…”
“For God’s sake, I’m not stupid. I went to college for three years.”
“How can you say something like that about your boyfriend?”
“Imagine saying something like that about your own boyfriend.”
Every sentence dug a little deeper into my mind.
Because after a while, I wasn’t just hearing it from him.
I started wondering whether “everyone else” really thought the same thing.
Thankfully, my children had moved in with their father by the time things at home truly spiralled out of control. That happened after child welfare services became involved when he was arrested by the police.
And still, I couldn’t leave.
He knew exactly how to use my conscience against me.
And he used it for everything it was worth.
I thought I had reached rock bottom.
But this was only the beginning.

To be continued…