ABUSE
This part is harder to write.
Because once I write it, it’s real.
There were moments I told myself it wasn’t abuse. That I was just being “too sensitive,” or “dramatic,” or “emotional.” That if I had just said it differently, if I hadn’t cried, if I hadn’t pushed back… maybe he wouldn’t have shoved me. Maybe he wouldn’t have screamed in my face. Maybe he wouldn’t have called me names that echo in my head when I try to sleep.
But the truth is:
He did.
He did shove me.
He did grab my arm hard enough to leave marks.
He did yell so close to my face I flinched.
He did throw things.
He did make me feel worthless.
He did break me down mentally, over and over, until I stopped recognizing myself.
And I was pregnant.
That’s what makes this feel even more sick. That he could hurt me—not just emotionally, but physically—while I was carrying his child. And somehow twist it back on me. Make me the villain. Make me apologize for making him mad enough to “react.”
It’s taken me this long to even write it out loud.
But here it is. It happened.
And I’m not hiding it anymore.
This journal is my proof. My mirror. My line in the sand.
