Caution: This post describes moments of domestic violence. Stop reading if you need to. Stay safe.
Not counting my childhood, the first time I truly felt unsafe was shortly after moving in with my then boyfriend. I was afraid of the idea — it was my first time living with someone, and I didn’t know the rules. But he was “the one,” and I was already spending most nights at his place. It felt adult. It felt right. I hid it from my parents; I didn’t need their judgment. I was choosing this. Without permission.
On the surface, everything looked perfect. A beautiful condo, close to work, no more late‑night drives. A no‑brainer. He was everything I thought I wanted: handsome, successful, smart, charming. He pushed me to be better — make more money, cook gourmet meals, dress more sophisticated. I was willing. I’d been trained to please. This was child’s play.
I ignored the tension bubbling under the surface. Tension felt normal. He liked compliant; I was compliant. He liked obedient; I was obedient to a fault. To the outside world, I looked perfectly pulled together and happy. That was a uniform I wore well. It felt familiar, so it must have been safe. Fear didn’t register. He could protect me.
He had a hair‑trigger temper. He could go from zero to felony over burnt toast. I was afraid, but he was exactly like my father. Be a good girl and he won’t get angry. My father’s words pulsed in my head. I was in familiar territory. I had the playbook. Red flags? I turned color‑blind.
He didn’t start “disciplining” me until a few months later — something I was expecting. He was exactly what I was used to, and his treatment felt normal.
Before I knew it, I was spending an afternoon in a dryer. Being bumped off a second‑floor balcony “on accident.” Left tied to a bed all day. Not allowed to have shoes. Watching the dinner I’d worked on for hours get thrown across the table because he wasn’t in the mood for beef. Each new punishment more absurd than the last, but my mind accepted it as what I deserved. What was comfortable.
I remember being repeatedly backhanded for “smirking.” I’d cry, “I wasn’t smirking!” But looking back, I probably was. Humor was my coping skill. If I laughed, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. Laughter was my armor. Tears were useless.
I’m not going to pretend I have everything figured out now. I want to choose better. I’m self‑aware enough — thanks to relentless therapy — to know that my perception of “safe” has never been safe at all. What I deserve? I’m still working that out. But I know I’m searching for the version of myself who can carry this new armor. One built on confidence, not fear. Fear replaced by caution.
Caution I can work with.
Choosing better – slowly, suspiciously,
K.
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