It’s crazy to think of the reasons why I’ve kept myself from sharing this for so long.

He doesn’t deserve to have someone talk about him like this, to put his off-stage persona on display.

He’s not a bad person, just a little fucked up.

The first time he hurt me, it was after I talked to a friend about our private life. He said it wasn’t mine to share. I’d never been in a serious relationship before and he was much older. Maybe I got the rules wrong.

I was visiting my parents in New Jersey and wasn’t going to make it back to Brooklyn when I said I would because there was a hurricane. The trains were suspended. My parents didn’t want me to drive my car. He didn’t believe me. Shitfaced, he tore into me through the phone. I was an awful person. A slut. I was obviously cheating on him. Everything I owned was bound for the sidewalk. My bike.

It didn’t seem real. No fight in my life had ever felt like this. He knew I couldn’t fight back. Calling from my parents’ house meant hiding in my closet and whispering. I never told them about him.

If they’re reading this, now they know.

(hi, I love you both, I didn’t want you to worry)

My only comfort was found in a Facebook chat with my oldest friend. I told him I was miserable. That I couldn’t stay in this anymore.

We worked it out the next day. It was just the alcohol. He would never act like that. We loved each other. I thought about marrying him.

A few days later, I worked my remote job from his living room while he played a show in Boston. My Facebook account was logged in to an open browser. It was fine. We didn’t have secrets. I hit a wrong link. I hit the back button. One time too many. It was the conversation I had with my friend. I felt no regret for what I wrote, but plenty for the trust I thought I had in my relationship.

It was still hours before his show, but he said we could talk about it when he got home. He walked in at 1 in the morning while I laid in bed. My eyes were nowhere close to closing. He laid down next to me, breathing Jack Daniels onto my neck. He wasn’t going to bring it up. I wasn’t going to bring it up. As every nerve of my body tensed, I walked out to the living room. I couldn’t stay there.

At 19, I wasn’t someone to move towards conflict. No plan followed leaving the bed. Unable to sleep and needing a distraction, I turned on the computer. I didn’t hear him come up behind me.

“What are you going to tell him about this time? Are you fucking him?”

The only lessons I retained about conflict resolution involved sharing your own feelings. My attempt to steer the conversation towards the betrayal I felt barely left my mouth when I felt the floor shake. My laptop hit the ground. He picked it up again, making sure it shattered this time.

I don’t remember what we said. What we screamed. I remember him taking off his belt. A frame on the wall took the blow. More shattering. I found my shoes as the glass piled up.

Grabbing whatever belongings I could rescue, I started on my clumsy escape. My phone joined the collection on the floor. Running out the door, he followed after me, wanting to know who else I was fucking, who else I was lying to. The shouting stopped, and I felt panicked relief.

I always tell people I had my first bike stolen in New York because I was drunk and consequently left it unlocked outside. It’s a funny story. We laugh at my careless stupidity.

That’s how you should lose a bike at 19.

I made it two blocks away when the shouting began again.

“You forgot your bike.”

I felt it crash into me forcing me into a fence and all I carried into the middle of Metropolitan and Roebling. The only other people left on the street at 3am were two drunk NYU boys. As I picked myself up, he told them I was cheating on him. They stood there, laughing at the situation. I don’t think I’ve ever come across two more useless people in my life.

Abandoning the bike, I started running again until I finally made it to the apartment I’d been renting for three months. It just had an air mattress. This would be my third night sleeping there.

I didn’t really know my roommates. One was a cokehead, and the other wanted nothing to do with me.

Barefoot and drunk, he raced after me and camped on the doorstep. Computerless and phoneless, my only exit was blocked until he had to leave for work. I found the iPad my grandma left with me when she died a few months before. You can’t call the police from an iPad, so instead I logged into his Facebook and changed his status to “[name redacted] abuses women.” 10 minutes later, my guilt forced me to take it down. I don’t think anyone saw.

Eventually, I made it back to New Jersey where I worked from my dad’s computer while I waited for my new one to arrive. I said I dropped it down the subway stairs. With my phone. He couldn’t believe how careless I was with my things.

I took pictures of my bruises. This whole thing was going to be over. Speaking for the first time since our “fight”, he cried. He didn’t want to hurt me. He didn’t remember it. He was drunk. Maybe it didn’t really happen. Maybe I was crazy. I agreed to get coffee with him if he started going to AA again. I’d meet him somewhere nearby after.

We got coffee. My clothes made their way back to his house. I thought about marrying him.

It took a month for us to fight like that again.

It took 8 more for him to move in to my new apartment.

Another 6 after that to unsuccessfully try to kick him out and decide to move to Texas instead.

It took 4 years of it being over to write this down.

It doesn’t feel over. I have panic attacks wondering what will happen if I see him again. When I came back to New York from Texas in December 2014, after only six months away, we were friends. His dad was dying, and I felt obligated to be his support.

It’s only been a year since I cut him out of my life. I didn’t tell him I was leaving New York again. He plays in a band with musicians from Portland. Thanks to the powers of the internet, I know that my coworkers are friends with some of his bandmates. My anxiety builds thinking about us seeing each other on the same street, in the same city.

I guess I thought if I wrote this down, I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. The part of my mind that is so afraid of losing this story could finally rest. Maybe tomorrow I’ll think about something else while I’m running. Maybe next week I’ll finally let myself start a relationship without panicking and shutting out the person entirely.

Whenever I think about the relationship, my mind starts echoing, “I’m not crazy.” Seeing the words written down helps to solidify my memories as truths.

This happened. I’m not crazy.