Anonymous
Guest Blogger
It’s so strange to say I’m in an abusive relationship when I don’t have bruises to prove it. I haven’t been hit, haven’t had anyone scream at me in public, but I’ve spent nights on the floor of my own room, heart aching and mind shattered, questioning my worth over and over. It sounds odd, right? How can someone I love so much also be the reason I feel like I’m slipping away?
When I met him, I thought he was everything. He walked into my life, and suddenly, it felt like I was the main character in my own romantic movie. From day one, he flooded me with attention, texted me constantly, and seemed like he saw right through me to the parts of myself no one else noticed. I thought he saw the real me. For the first time, I thought I’d found a safe place, someone who made me feel cherished, who understood me deeply. But now, looking back, I realize that first week was just the beginning of a love that would trap me more than it would ever set me free.
They call it love bombing, and it feels like exactly that—a bomb, an explosion of affection so overwhelming it knocks you off your feet. I was lost in it. I was convinced he must be my soulmate. But soon enough, things began to change, and I started to see another side of him. I remember the first time he just vanished, without a reason, no message, no call. It’s like the person who’d seemed so perfect one moment had completely disappeared the next. I didn’t understand. I thought, "Maybe he’s busy. Maybe something happened." I waited and waited, glued to my phone, hoping he’d explain, hoping he’d reassure me. When he finally did come back, it was as if nothing had happened, and I, desperate for him to return to the way he’d been, pretended nothing had either.
This cycle became my normal. One day he’s there, showing me all the love I’d dreamed of, the next he’s gone, leaving me to piece together all the ways I might have pushed him away, all the ways I might have been too much or too little. I became obsessed with figuring out how to be the right person for him. I had to be—because the truth is, I didn’t know who I was without his validation anymore.
But that’s the thing about emotional abuse: it sinks its roots into your deepest insecurities, makes you believe you are unworthy, that you are somehow the cause of this pain. So I stayed. I stayed, even when I knew he was seeing other people. I stayed, even when he would go days without a word, only to return and apologize in a way that felt so sincere, I couldn’t help but forgive him.
When he’s good, he’s everything I need, everything I thought I couldn’t live without. Those are the days when I tell myself, “Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m too sensitive. Maybe I’m expecting too much.” But on the other days—on the days when he vanishes, or when I catch him in a lie, or when he turns his cold shoulder on me without explanation—I fall apart. The person looking back at me in the mirror is a shadow of who I used to be. I see someone who doubts her own worth, who no longer remembers what it feels like to be loved freely, without fear or confusion.
I’ve read so many times that “love shouldn’t hurt,” but in my heart, it’s hard to let go of the idea that maybe this is just how love is. Maybe it’s messy. Maybe it’s supposed to challenge us, make us grow. But there’s a voice in the back of my mind that whispers, “This isn’t love. This is a cage disguised as love.”
I wish I could say that I’ve found the courage to walk away, that I’ve broken free from this cycle. But I haven’t. I feel chained, bound to him by all the memories we’ve made, by the feeling that no one else will ever see me the way he does on his good days. I know it’s a lie—I know I could find someone who truly loves me, who won’t hurt me this way—but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to believe it. Because if I admit that, I’d have to admit that I’ve been hurting myself by staying.
I think about the term “trauma bond” and how I’ve become attached to someone who has, over and over, inflicted emotional wounds that I carry long after the moment has passed. But then, in a cruel twist, he’s also the one who has helped me heal from other wounds, who has been there in moments when I felt completely alone. How do you walk away from someone who has both destroyed you and rebuilt you?
There’s a numbness that’s settled in now. The highs aren’t as high, and the lows aren’t as crushing. I feel like I’m floating in between, like I’m just surviving each day, waiting to see which version of him will show up. And in this waiting, I’ve lost myself. I’m no longer the person I used to be. I’ve given so much of myself, trying to be enough for him, that I have nothing left to give myself. I look in the mirror, and I see a stranger staring back at me, someone who has forgotten what it means to be happy, to feel loved without conditions, to be at peace.
I know I deserve better. I know love isn’t supposed to break you down, isn’t supposed to make you question every part of who you are. I know that love, real love, would never leave me feeling this empty. But knowing and believing are two very different things. Knowing doesn’t erase the fear, the pain, the part of me that clings to him because I can’t imagine life without him.
There’s a quiet tragedy in loving someone who isn’t good for you. It’s like living in a storm, knowing the sun exists but never knowing if you’ll see it. And it’s hard to explain to people why you stay. Hard to explain that it’s not just love, but something deeper, something darker, a bond that feels like both a lifeline and a curse.
To anyone reading this who has felt the same, I just want to say: I see you. I know it’s not easy, and I know you feel trapped. But I want you to know that you aren’t alone. There are others who understand the depth of your pain, the way it feels to love someone who makes you question your very self. I don’t have all the answers—I’m still trying to find my own. But maybe, just maybe, by sharing our stories, we can find a way to reclaim the love we owe to ourselves.
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