I want to talk about domestic violence, the kind that doesn’t leave bruises. The kind that lives in your head long after the relationship ends. I’m not here to compare types of abuse, because pain is pain. But I remember telling someone I once loved, I’d rather you beat my ass than do the things you do to me. Because at least bruises fade and scars heal. That mental and emotional shit? It stays.
The manipulation. The control. The constant talking at me, never to me. The name calling disguised as “jokes.” The belittling when I tried to dream out loud. The silent treatment that lasted for days. The guilt trips every time I needed a break. The way he could twist my words so hard that I started questioning my own sanity. That’s what people don’t see, it’s not one big explosion. It’s a slow erosion of who you are.
“Just leave,” they say.
If only it were that simple.
See, I told my abuser my dream once. I told him I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, a housewife, a woman with a home full of kids and laughter. Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, building a family, holding it all together. I wanted a man who protected and provided. What I didn’t say was I wanted a man who could nurture me too, because I thought that was obvious. But he heard what he wanted to hear and built his control around it.
See, that’s how they trap you. They make you dependent; financially, emotionally, physically, and mentally. They tear down your confidence, your independence, your connections, until you can’t remember who you were before them. You start believing no one else would ever love you. And once that happens, they don’t even need to raise their voice, you’ve already learned how to police yourself.
And while you’re breaking in silence, he’s out there spinning the story.
Telling people you’re the problem. That you’re dramatic. Delusional. Crazy. That he “tried everything,” but you’re “just impossible to please.” So now, not only are you trying to survive what he did to you, you’re also fighting to prove you’re not the villain in a story he wrote about his own guilt.
Then one day, you finally leave. Or maybe you escape. Either way, you’re gone, but the hard part’s just starting.
You learn to rebuild from nothing. You wake up one day and realize you’re free, but freedom doesn’t feel like peace yet. It feels like panic. Like, what now? You’re broke, scared, and every time your phone lights up, your chest tightens. You second guess everything, your voice, your choices, even your damn worth. That’s what emotional and mental abuse does. It doesn’t just break you down; it rewires you.
You start remembering the little things that didn’t seem like abuse at first. The “jokes” that hurt. The way every argument turned into your fault. How you stopped recognizing the sound of your own laughter. You realize how deep the damage goes when you start apologizing for things you didn’t do, for feelings you were allowed to have, for simply existing too loudly.
And people keep saying, you’ll be fine, you’re strong. But strength isn’t glamorous. It’s crying in the shower, figuring out how to live again, forcing yourself out of bed when your heart feels heavy.
You’re forced to figure it out in real time. You cry, you hustle, you barely get by. You borrow strength from your future self, the one still fighting to believe she deserves better. You build a new version of yourself from the pieces that tried to destroy. It’s not pretty. It’s not easy. But it’s yours.
And one day, when you look back, you’ll realize the scariest part wasn’t leaving. It was learning to stop surviving and start living again.
Bri Unhinged 