This is an excerpt from a story published by Cosmopolitan Magazine. This is only an excerpt because the story is long and very intense.
Blind to the Warning Signs
I grew up in Wisconsin, the only child to a single mom, Charlotte. I lived with her, my grandmother and, off and on, several cousins. Mom was one of my best friends. We bonded doing things like hiking to see Wisconsin’s waterfalls and road-tripping to George Strait concerts.
I met James LaHoud in 2005. He started calling me at the salon where I work — not to get a haircut, but to chat. I never told him where I lived, but one day, before we’d even been on a real date, I came home to a dozen roses on my doorstep. At the time, I thought it was romantic. Now, I realize that should’ve been my first clue.
James and I dated for two or three years, off and on. I’d been married before and knew what I did — and didn’t — want. I told James that if he ever hit me, I would leave. Emotional abuse, however, I didn’t even think about.
James put me down a lot. One of his biggest pet peeves was how I folded towels, which should have been my second hint. He’d say that if I folded them like he did, they would look better. I’d try it his way, but he’d just say, "My gosh, that looks even worse. Go back to the horrible way you were doing it earlier." He mocked my cooking too. Once, I baked a chicken for too long and he threw it in the trash. It wasn’t worth eating, he said, so that night we didn’t eat at all.
By our first anniversary, he’d already broken up with me multiple times. Our breakups would go like this: He would leave me crying, and before I could even clear my head, he’d be calling and asking for forgiveness. "I can forgive you if you’ll change this," he’d say. Or, "We can make it work if you’ll fix that." It was always my fault, my flaws that needed work.
I was on a pedestal when we started dating, and he took me down, step by step. An emotional abuser makes you feel like nobody wants you, that he’s the only one who can love you.
This is an excerpt from an article by Elite Daily.
“He has potential,” I would tell myself. Soon enough, making excuses became too easy.
Eventually, I felt too self-conscious around my neighbors who overheard everything and folks in the dining hall who would gossip about our last big public blow out. It was so embarrassing that I felt like we had to stay together, we had to prove there was something worth saving.
To numb my frustrations, I finally began going to therapy. But I wouldn't tell the whole story. Once I got a prescription for my uncontrollable anxiety, I'd nervously tear at the bottle and swallow as many pills as I could, often during fights so I could coast through the anger and fear.
“You don't understand. He's my best friend,” I'd say to friends. He was so charismatic and ruthlessly charming, so the incessant fighting had to be my fault, right? I was too volatile; I pushed him too much. I wasn't worth it for anyone else, so we were stuck together. These are the things I convinced myself of.
But I grew tired of making myself vulnerable in a relationship that wasn't helping me grow into a better person. It wasn't until after I graduated from college that I finally left him.
I realized that I was the only one responsible for the type of love I brought into my life. But that was a long and painful process. Without the support of patient friends with open hearts, I don't think I would've ever left him.
This is from an interview with a girl named Brittany by WeWomen.
WeWomen: What were the first signs that your boyfriend was emotionally abusive?
Brittany: As I said, the first warning sign was when he said he loved me within a few weeks. This escalated into him calling me many times a day and texting me obsessively. Every time I went out he would ask me to call him immediately after, then he would ask question after question about who I saw, what I wore, who I spoke to, if anyone flirted with me, if I flirted with anyone, did I look at anyone.
I remember being out in a shopping center with him and looking at a short dress - after that he asked me why I wanted to look like a slut. Soon he put pressure on me to dress differently, to delete all of my male friends on Facebook, to stop hanging out with my male friends, gradually peeling away my social network and frightening me with huge temper tantrums and vile insults.
The abuse was so shocking I didn't know how to respond. But I'd always sensed that if I didn't give him what he wanted or do things his way, that he would make things difficult. As things escalated, he would explode at the slightest thing; assuming I had made eye contact with other men in front of him and using that as a trigger to argue and tell me I was a slut.
He would send me alternating texts telling me I was the best, followed by texts saying I was pathetic or weak or disgusting, followed by how wonderful, beautiful, incredible I was. I was constantly disorientated.
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