Why It’s So Hard to Leave an Abusive Relationship

This article originally appeared on VICE Belgium.

Trigger warning for accounts of physical and emotional abuse.

I was the victim of physical and psychological abuse from an ex I loved dearly. That’s a simple statement of fact, and yet I still have trouble accepting it as the truth. It’s years since the relationship ended, and I continue to feel like I must be exaggerating somehow. It’s a combination of numerous factors, but three stick out: the shame that I let myself be pushed around, a dissonance between the image I have of a victim and the image I have of myself, and a fear of conflict. 

I have a thousand reasons why I’d rather keep that sad chapter of my life a secret. And for years, I did just that. But eventually, I decided to break my silence and open up about what happened. The suffering didn’t end there, though – that was just the first step in my healing process, one that people don’t talk about enough. That’s why I resolved to reach out to other people who’ve been through similar experiences. I wanted to normalise talking about abuse, and frame it as something many people live through and survive.

“‘We just have a really passionate relationship’ – that’s what I’d always say when someone would point out the guy I was dating had anger issues,” says Alina, 27, who has chosen to use a pseudonym. She was only 17 when she fell madly in love with her now ex. “I mean, sure, his reactions were extreme sometimes, but that was just because he loved me so much,” she says. “At least, that’s what I told myself.” 

Alina and her ex dated long-distance for eight years, during which he tried to control everything in her life, from her clothes to her education. “He’d criticise my friends and my sisters. And because he was my first love, I thought it was all normal,” she says.

Romy (not her real name), 28, also spent seven years in a physically and psychologically abusive relationship. “On his good days, he gave me lots of love. I felt special when I was with him,” she says. “I loved him to death. Plus, I knew he’d had a traumatic childhood, so I forgave his extremes.”

Romy thought she could contribute to the relationship by helping her partner cope with the pain he was in. “I remember one day, he said to me: ‘It’s the people you love who hurt you the most.’ That really stuck with me,” she recalls.

It’s difficult to see yourself as someone who’s endured abuse and manipulation, especially at the hands of somebody you love and who supposedly loves you back. ‘How could you be so blind?’ the little devil on my shoulder would often ask me, the loud-mouthed feminist, who always knew what advice to give friends. 

But, as Romy says, “domestic violence doesn’t just pop up one day… It starts small, then grows slowly – and next thing you know, you’re in an incredibly unhealthy relationship. The outside world can see that, but for you and your partner, it’s a form of intimacy that gets completely normalised.”

There’s something exciting about being in a relationship no one else can understand. It’s bond that feels romantic, and is strengthened by the way books and movies have represented these tumultuous relationships throughout history.

Eventually, you even end up adhering to the same gaslighting logics your partner uses against you. “I always justified his aggression by telling myself it was something he couldn’t control,” says Romy. “That it wasn’t directed at me personally.”

It took me several years to realise something wasn’t right. As time passed, I observed his manipulative comments escalate into hands squeezing around my throat. When I see that written down, I feel almost stupid. But after each outburst, I’d tell myself this was the last time, and that it was my job to make sure he didn’t get into that kind of state again. 

One day, after having another out-of-control argument, I went to the police. But I had no bruises, no proof to show I’d been abused, so I went back in the hope that he’d calmed down. The idea of talking to my loved ones about our relationship crossed my mind many times. But if I spoke up, I knew I’d be forced to leave him – and that was unthinkable.

Alina also found herself stuck in this limbo. “I couldn’t imagine living without him,” she says. “When people started commenting on his behaviour, I’d filter what I told them, so as not to arouse suspicion.” And the longer you wait, the deeper you sink. How do you tell your loved ones you’re tangled in an unspeakable quagmire from which you dare not escape?

Taking that first step towards opening up is so hard because it forces you to acknowledge the reality of the situation – and that’s exactly what you’re trying to avoid. But talking to a third person is the only way to break the toxic cycle that sustains dysfunctional relationships, as Romy found out. She split with her ex – for reasons that had nothing to do with his abuse – and moved in with her brother.

“My brother noticed I was apologising for every little thing, that I was anxious all the time,” she says. “He didn’t understand why, but it all seemed weird to him, so he started asking me questions. That’s how I began to realise something wasn’t right. Something clicked in my head.” 

For the next few weeks, Romy began deconstructing her own memories and re-examining the relationship in a new light. “When I look back on it now, I see there were lots of moments when I knew my partner’s behaviour wasn’t normal, but I systematically blocked those thoughts by telling myself I wasn’t being sympathetic enough,” she says. “He was always very good at explaining why he was in the right and that it was all my fault.”

Threats, sweet words, guilt tripping – abusers know how to keep their partners from tarnishing their reputation, which is the only thing that seems to matter to them. Romy’s partner explicitly asked her not to talk about his angry outbursts with friends because he was ashamed of his behaviour.

For most of her relationship, Alina also hid her partner’s violence from her best friend of many years because she knew the two didn’t get along. “But during our last two months together, he crossed so many lines that I finally called [her] in tears and told her everything,” she says. “She never said ‘I told you so,’ never blamed me for keeping secrets. She immediately told me it was emotional abuse and it wasn’t my fault.”

Alina’s friend is an exception: Not everyone has the foresight to be this supportive when a loved one comes forward. In fact, many people make the mistake of passing judgment, or expressing guilt about the fact they’d never recognised the severity of the situation. But as an ally, it’s important not to make these initial conversations about yourself and not get hung up on the signs you missed or the gory details. 

In my case, I only started talking about my relationship long after the break-up. At the time, we were still seeing each other regularly, had lots of friends in common and shared custody of a dog. It seemed wrong for me to cut him off completely. But I felt deeply angry that the person who’d hurt me so badly got to walk away unscathed, whereas I felt I was going to be affected by the relationship for life. 

Even after I started opening up, I was still very guarded. I didn’t want people pitying me, judging me, telling me they would have left right away if they’d been in my position. I didn’t want to be a victim.

After all, friends and family aren’t always prepared for such information. Some told me they didn’t want to “take sides”. For me, that was the worst. When loved ones turn a blind eye to the abuse or tell you, “Well, that’s life,” they’re tacitly supporting violence. Often, it’s because it makes them uncomfortable to think of their friend, the abuser, in that way and hold them responsible.

My ex and I have now been broken up for five years. And even though I’ve definitively cut him out of my life, it’s not as easy as just turning the page or starting afresh. Trauma leaves marks that may never completely disappear. All you can do is rebuild yourself, and don’t hold out for an apology or an acknowledgement from your abuser.

Since my relationship ended, I’ve become distrustful, anxious and pessimistic when it comes to love. Now when I meet someone I like, I always have my guard up. I’m wary of becoming trapped and refuse to be taken advantage of this time. I don’t even have trust in myself anymore.

The truth is, I don’t know what a healthy relationship actually looks like. The concepts of balance and stability don’t make sense to me – I feel as if love can’t be real unless it’s toxic. Intimate partner violence has made me doubt every part of myself.

Romy’s experience with dating has been similar to mine. “At the beginning, I was super vigilant. I always looked for the door in case I had to run,” she says. “I felt like the person in front of me could change completely from one second to the next.” Fortunately, with time, this distress has faded away, but she’s still very sensitive to certain signs, like sexist or hateful comments. And she still worries that she could end up in another abusive relationship.

Alina has had trouble with love too. “In the three years since our breakup, I’ve only dated one person, but it didn’t last,” she says. “I was in distress all the time, everything triggered me.” Her ex criticised her so often and so thoroughly, she’s been feeling a constant pressure to prove herself. “It’s paralysing,” she says. “I ended up avoiding dating altogether. It’s just not worth it to me.”

A few months ago, I decided I deserved to move forward. I’ll never forget what happened, but for my own wellbeing, I have to be able to pack this story away in a box. And that means allowing myself to tell my version of what happened – everything I experienced, everything my ex silenced, everything I self-censored to protect him. 

My therapist was the first person who gave me the space to do that. He was the first person who didn’t question my memories, who validated my feelings, and helped me see the impact of my trauma on my present life. Outside of professional help, talking to other people who’ve undergone this experience was also hugely helpful, even if it’s hard to contemplate the violence of their stories (and by extension, mine).

If you read this and you’ve also endured physical and psychological violence at the hands of a partner, you’re not alone. It’s not your fault and you can’t fix the situation. Talk about it with someone you trust and tell them your fears. If your situation is precarious on a financial, legal or familial level, then seek professional support. You deserve a life without fear and without hurt. You deserve to be yourself.

For advice on getting support for domestic or emotional abuse in the UK, visit this guide provided by the NHS.