The first time I fell in love, I thought it would be forever. We had kids names planned and I had our futures mapped out in my mind. He was the first man to meet my parents – in all my twenties so far, I haven’t met another man worthy of the honour. But it became unhealthy – or maybe it always was, and I just never saw it – we loved each other obsessively, aggressively and more dangerously with every day that passed.
I met him over a decade ago, which is crazy to think now. He was abusive, physically and emotionally, but I healed and moved on from it – or so I thought. I think about incidents between us sometimes – how awful they were, how scared I was at that time, how sick he was to thrive off my fear.
Anyway, I wrote something about one of the many terrible nights I shared with him. I wrote about it for my own therapeutic reasons, but also because I know I’m not alone in what I experienced – far from it. And sometimes we might not want to talk about it, but reading that you’re not alone can be quite helpful, I think. So here it is:
On a final note, shout out Jinan Younis for helping me get the article out, and Tishya Desai for the illustration she made for the piece. ↓↓↓