He Never Hit Me, He Said He Loved Me: My Story of Emotional Abuse

Every time he abandoned me or ridiculed me, I asked myself – How did I get here? How did I become this woman?

I used to let my nails bite into my skin, take in deep breaths and look all around – I had to stop crying.

Stop crying like a baby. You’re just making a big deal out of nothing. Do not embarrass me in front of others. If I didn’t stop, he would just walk or drive away. Innumerable times, I shuddered, desperately trying to calm myself but unable to fight against the panic attacks that would engulf me. Terrifying moments, when I would gulp in all the air I could, to make up for the lack of his presence and sensitivity during those painful seconds that lasted forever after he’d emotionally assaulted me.

But he never hit me, he said he loved me.

How Did I Become This Woman?

This was not him, I had made him like this. My scars had driven him to this insanity. I should not say he was emotionally abusive, I should not talk about how I felt because of the things he did. Do you know how it feels to have the person you love say you are abusive? Why do you love to hurt me by bringing up the past?

I was being selfish, over-sensitive and accusatory. Eventually, everything would fall into place, because he was trying so hard to be ‘nice’ to me. He perpetuated the myth of mutual abuse to every fibre of my being. How many times did I go back, believing that he was a changed man and genuinely regretful? But he never hit me, he said he loved me.

Every time he abandoned me, accused me or ridiculed me, I asked myself – How did I get here? How did I become this woman? I was unable to get myself to end it; leaving him was an unfathomable option.

I could not look at myself in the mirror, I abhorred my broken self. And when I did happen to stare at that hateful woman, I saw the scars. I saw the thin and frail body beaten up by months of physical self-torture and emotional abuse. You are so ugly and malnourished. Your scars will gross people, nobody will want you – his words would resonate in my head.

But he never hit me, he said he loved me.

I Defended Him and Justified His Behaviour

Breaking apart completely, I confessed about all the cruel things to my friends who listened. Initially, they were repulsed and shocked, but eventually they got tired.

I went back and forth to them, like the tide, flowing helplessly between him and them, with no home. Finally, they had had enough – We tried our best, they said. Despite unforgivable transgressions, I defended him and justified his behaviour. Eventually, I stopped telling anyone at all, to escape the shame of the horrendous circumstances I lived in. Waiting for his messages, I failed to notice the trickling down of messages from my loved ones.

But he never hit me, he said he loved me.

I sobbed on the bathroom floor, my eyes red with burst blood vessels, my hands trembling as they held blades or pills. I was overwhelmed by shame and pain. The demons inside me crushed my soul swiftly, yet agonisingly.

I had begun to believe that I was to blame too – but how could I say it out loud? How could I confess that I really felt like a slut whenever he called me one? His sexual misconduct and lewd comments on my vagina was dismissed as his socialszation.

My conditioned response to his baseless accusations of me cheating on him was to let it be because the behaviour was simply a reflection of his haunting insecurities. He had been wronged, and I had to protect him. If not me, then who?

His abuse was not intentional, he was not a monster.

I was alone.

But he never hit me, he said he loved me.

I Was a “Scarred Girl Who Could Not Orgasm”

I believed every one of his irrational statements, curbing the protest of my own brain and eyes.

It was easier to cut off my support network, than to have to lie every time. I decided that I would stay and help him resolve his issues, because he was with a person like ‘me’, a scarred girl who could not orgasm. You cannot come, you have a problem! – he would say.

I would not stay if he ever hit me, I consoled myself. He cared so much that he had uncontrollable bouts of anger, sadness or jealousy. Internalisation became my mantra.

But he never hit me, he said he loved me.

To someone who sees the real normal, it is mostly impossible to believe that love, hate, comfort and humiliation can co-exist. People chided me, saying that I had sacrificed my self-respect.

In abuse, you lose yourself. Your self-respect becomes his respect for you, your self-love becomes his love for you. How would I explain that by leaving him I was throwing away the only traces of love and respect that I had? Tender moments haunted me and pushed me back, because all that mattered was his approval and care.

I did not know hatred towards him, for abuse was just a part of who he was.

When the relationship finally ended, people mocked my mourning. Being abused is one of the most battering and confusing experiences ever. You see the love of your life, the one you rely upon, turn into an absolute stranger. You break apart, trying to gauge what is that you have done to have him/her behave like this and what you can do to stop that.

Though I had escaped a vicious cycle, I had lost a confidant, a companion and a lover. I had lost someone who could make me laugh and who knew me inside out. I had lost my best friend.

I Choose the Word Survivor

Eventually, I realised that these acts of violence cannot co-exist with love. I learnt the uncompromisable importance of that red line. ABUSE CANNOT BE FIXED OR CURED WITH LOVE. It is not a sign of inadequacy in the abused, but rather an incessant need of the abuser to exercise control and power.

I have learnt that I have nothing to be ashamed of. Staying was not my fault, and I have in no way justified abuse because I had to go through the horror of an abusive relationship. I am not a hopeless woman who had a moral fall.

I know this, because I read the stories of millions of unbelievably courageous women, who have gone through abuse and embraced me through their pain. I know I am not crazy or oversensitive, and that I am no less than anyone else. I will forgive myself because I deserve it. You could call me a victim, I choose the word survivor.

Yes, I was in an abusive relationship. Yes, I harmed myself. Yes, I lost many loved ones. Yes, I lost my sense of self. And yes, I am righteous, gorgeous, independent and brave. I am worthy of the best, and this is the truth despite all the venom he spewed.

I pray that these words will echo in the mind of every broken woman, who has impeccable beauty within her. May she see, through my eyes, how her million shattered pieces become a beautiful masterpiece.

Note: Horrifying sexual and domestic violence against women continues in India despite an intricate and nuanced legal network. While some concern is shown over broken bones, almost none is directed towards broken dreams. So next time instead of asking “Why did you stay?”, ask yourself how you can enable them to leave.

(Shmira – name changed – is a 19-year-old woman who was in an emotionally abusive relationship for a year. The article penned above is an account of her experience. Since then, Shmira has been actively working towards spreading awareness on abuse, and the stigma and shaming associated with it. The above memoir is a heartfelt effort to reach out to victims, those who had the courage to leave and the equally courageous who stay.)