#WhyIStayed: Janay Palmer And The Boyfriend I’m Scared Is Reading This

The first stage of abuse isn’t violence. It’s making the victim fall in love with you

Most people will by now have seen or heard about the video of footballer Ray Rice punching then-girlfriend Janay Palmer in a lift. It’s a horrendous story and unfortunately far too common, but what frustrated me the most were the responses insisting she was stupid to marry him or only did so for money.

It angers me when people suggest domestic violence victims like Palmer should “just leave”. Domestic abuse is psychological as well as physical — leaving a partner you know and trust isn’t the same as running from a stranger after an assault.

I remember the first time I told anybody about my abusive then-boyfriend. It was in late May this year, and he’d hit me earlier in the day. I went out and drank more than I should have. I wanted to forget him, forget our argument, forget he’d ever abused me — more than anything, I wanted to talk to someone about him, but was scared he’d find out. Even two miles away I felt he was watching me.

One of my friends ended up sitting next to me, talking about how he was going clubbing. He spent five minutes trying to persuade me to join him, with me inventing excuses as to why I couldn’t. Eventually I snapped. “Just shut up, okay?” I told him. “Unless you want me to get beaten up when I get home, I’m not going clubbing with you.”

Instantly I regretted it, terrified my boyfriend had heard. I knew this was completely irrational — he was at home — but I always felt he was monitoring my movements, watching what I did, ready to beat me if I stepped out of line. He read my texts, looked through my Facebook messages and made sure he always knew where I was: even when we were apart he was in my mind telling me what to do. I’m typing this in an incognito window because I’m afraid he’ll see me.

I hoped I hadn’t said it aloud, but my friend’s expression told me otherwise. Over the next hour I told him everything my sober self had been unable to say — he probably thinks me a complete idiot now, but he listened. I’ve never needed anyone so much.

Three times he asked me to stay at his and I said no. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve replayed that scene in my head, wondering why I turned down his offer and wishing I hadn’t. The only conclusion I’ve come to is that I’d have had to tell my boyfriend where I spent the night. I was worried he’d shout at me or hit me again. When my friend walked me home, I didn’t even let him come to my front door: instead he left me on the corner of my street.

After that, mustering the courage to break up with him took me four days. I did so after an argument in my bathroom where he hit me until I passed out. My housemate heard the noise and came to investigate: he told her it was a wet floor. I regained consciousness and tried to leave, but he followed me down the road so I couldn’t escape. When he eventually gave up, I sent a breakup text and went to a friend’s.

It wasn’t the first time we’d split up. In the two years we were together, we must have done so twenty times or more. The pattern was always the same: we’d argue, he’d leave me, he’d return and offer “forgiveness” — on the condition I changed. I wasn’t to drink; I wasn’t to wear makeup or high heels; I wasn’t to have male friends. Each time I thought I’d done enough to please him the goalposts moved. He told me I was lucky he tolerated my horrible personality, because no-one else would have the patience. He’d make me feel the argument was my fault.

I don’t know why, but I needed his approval. All I wanted was to be good enough for him and every day for two years, I tried. It was never enough.

My friendship group grew smaller. Some he didn’t like purely because they were male, and I’m ashamed to admit it but I cut many out for him. (One I still feel especially guilty about: he’d been a close friend for almost three years but I ignored his texts, his emails, his Valentine’s Day message. I had to.) The rest my boyfriend disapproved of for other reasons: because they rowed, spent too much time at nightclubs or were “loud and annoying”. I didn’t cut them out, but I distanced myself from them, becoming more reliant on him; I often thought of him as my only friend. I was a terrible person who didn’t deserve any others.

He hated my mother too — she was too judgemental, too superficial, too inquisitive. In his words, everything wrong with me came from her. It’s odd, because she loved him: when I told her we’d broken up she was heartbroken. Somehow, to outsiders, he always maintained the appearance of a calm, loving boyfriend.

Whenever I confronted him about his abuse, he’d make me doubt my sanity, tell me I’d imagined it, deny ever having raised a hand against me. He’d tell me my bruises were self inflicted, that my memory was warped and he’d prevented me from hurting myself further. He’d remind me how much he loved me and that he’d never hurt me; he said he’d die for me.

Even once I’d left he saw me as his to abuse. Since he still had my key, he came to my house and read my texts while I slept. A friend’s suggestion our breakup was a good thing made him assume I’d been cheating. He told me he’d forgive me if I didn’t talk to that friend again, and when I refused he stood over me and forced me to reply that all was well and we were back together. I knew he’d hit me if I didn’t send it. He still sends me texts and emails calling me a lying, cheating whore.

Two days after leaving him, I’d gone to get my belongings from his house and fell unconscious because I was ill (I hadn’t slept well in about a week). He took me to hospital and for a while was nice again, staying with me in the waiting room for several hours. Once we were home, however, he told me I’d wasted his day and that I owed him a blowjob. I agreed, but flirtatiously told him I’d do it for a kiss. He told me if I was good enough, I’d have one.

At first it was consensual. Then he decided it wasn’t fast enough or deep enough for him, so grabbed my face and thrust himself down my throat. I tried to pull away but wasn’t strong enough. With his free hand he squeezed my breasts and tugged on my nipples until I cried; he noticed me crying and thrust harder, squeezed harder. I was gagging, but there was nothing I could do. I closed my eyes, willing it to be over.

Fortunately he didn’t last long. He pulled away, a disgusted look on his face, and shoved me backwards onto the bed. “You ruined that by being such a crybaby,” he said. “You should have taken it like a trooper.”

Then he told me I hadn’t earnt my kiss.

It’s not as easy to “just leave” as many suggest — if it were, I’d have left the first time he hit me. I imagine Janay Palmer would have too, but her heartbreaking Instagram statement highlights the central issue: victims think they are in love with their abusers.

For the first six months of our relationship I thought my ex was the sweetest, kindest, most understanding guy in the world — which meant the first time he lost his temper and threw a one kilogram bag of rice at my face, I instantly forgave him.

For Palmer, the lift incident was unlikely to have been the first — certainly, nothing I’ve described here only happened to me once. Now she’s forgiven and married him, I doubt it will be the last.

The fact I loved my ex — the fact I would sooner have died than seen harm come to him — is what makes the experience most traumatic. Before I met him, I always said I’d leave instantly if I found myself experiencing abuse: recognising his for what it was meant acknowledging I’d broken that promise to myself. I wanted to highlight my own flaws, to justify his behaviour somehow so I could justify staying with him.

Telling women like Palmer to “just leave” ignores that the first stage of an abusive relationship isn’t violence: it’s making the victim fall in love with you.

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