The Authentic Eclectic
Confessions of an Abusive Girlfriend
The upside of the Twilight saga is that, even from the first book, it sparked numerous online conversations expressing concern for how teens would be influenced to normalize and romanticize abusive behaviors, and these came with explanations of the signs of an abusive relationship beyond physical violence. I was 15 when the first book came out, and an incessant reader and contrarian, so I felt very grown-up and righteous for rejecting Twilight while learning what emotional/mental/verbal abuse looked like.
All that reading meant I could recognize the abusive behavior of my cousin’s girlfriend when I moved in with them and my own then-boyfriend in our freshman year of college. I understood it was abuse when she pressured him to not spend time with people other than her, and to not engage in hobbies she didn’t share. I understood that his ever-present, if hidden, sadness, and his fear of her ever getting upset, were the results of abusive emotional punishment.
I told him this and advised him to leave the relationship, being young and not yet knowing that you can’t advise someone out of love. He couldn’t stand the thought of abandoning her when her insecurity, volatile emotions, and the abusive behaviors that stemmed from them were themselves the results of the family abuse she had suffered. He was a sweet young person in love, so of course he wanted to care for her and protect her.
After our freshman year, he and his girlfriend transferred to a university in another city, and we stopped talking to each other. One day, I got a text from him that simply read: You were right. She had cheated on him and he finally broke up with her.
It was easy for me to recognize abuse when it was someone else inflicting it on someone that I loved. It took me much longer to realize that I was abusive, myself.
Like my cousin’s girlfriend, I grew up in an emotionally, and occasionally physically, abusive household. My parents’ unmet needs and insecurities were expressed through anger and put-downs; they had no healthy conflict resolution skills, no understanding of setting boundaries or how to manage their difficult emotions, and no way of communicating being hurt without resorting to violence of one sort or another. I developed a disorganized attachment style, the insecure attachment that forms when your source of safety also becomes a source of fear, and yo-yo’d between seeking closeness and connection, and distancing myself as much as physically and emotionally possible.
I didn’t think my parents’ behaviors were right or normal, but I had no real models of healthier behavior, nor any personal guidance in developing better skills. I was insecure and temperamental, prone to angry outbursts and occasional physical violence, driven by a desire to be morally good but evaluating myself and others through a highly judgmental lens. I developed the paradoxical disposition of caring a lot about other people’s well-being and wanting to see them treated well, even going out of my way to be kind, while internally remaining aloof and detached. It made me uneasy if someone wanted to be real friends. If I let them in to some degree, it was often only a matter of time before I drifted quietly away.
And then there was the romantic interest. Back then, I mostly found it confusing and somewhat unsettling. In hindsight, it’s less surprising. I was good at listening to people and saying things to build them up. I seemed confident, because I was more angry and dismissive than eager to please. I didn’t worry about fitting in, because I didn’t want to be around most people. So there was interest from guys, and other queer girls after I came out as bisexual.
At 16, I started my first Serious Relationship with a guy a year older. We’ll call him Rowan. I met Rowan through a friend of his who had a crush on me. Rowan and I became friends, too, and then I fell in love. I felt that he, unlike everyone else who had been interested, could “handle me.”
I knew that I was sick, though at the time I called it “broken.” I had dealt with bouts of suicidal ideation and chronic depression since I was 13. I was aware that my anger was too intense and that I expressed it hurtfully. I had a sense that I’d end up wrecking most of the people who had crushes on me. But not Rowan. Rowan was outspoken and stubborn, as judgmental and serious about morality as I was. He seemed confident, in the same way I seemed confident to people who didn’t have access to my thoughts and feelings. And of course he was a smart, funny geek with a luxurious ponytail. I didn’t think I would destroy Rowan.
And, well, I didn’t. But I did put him through hell for almost four years.
There were all the bad relational habits I learned from my parents, my undiagnosed and untreated treated mental illness, my insecurity and low self-esteem, the disorganized attachment style. Any time we fought — which was often, because I didn’t know how to handle my own painful feelings, and I had painful feelings frequently — I had the urge to cut and run. I thought we should break up. Things were bad for me, and I was bad for him, so the relationship should end. Of course we’d argue about that. We didn’t do the actual break-up-get-back-together cycle, but I was quick to put breaking up on the table, and it was agony for him. How could it not be?
Like my cousin, he became sad and anxious, haunted by the uncertainty of our relationship. He was living with a girlfriend who often felt threatened by the world, who hated herself, and who didn’t know how to manage her fear and pain without pouring it out on him. When he couldn’t make me feel safe, the anger turned on him. I would verbally go for the throat, saying things that were cruel or critical to cut him down. Or, in an effort to not do that, I would go completely silent and unresponsive, causing him even more distress. I was stonewalling him, because I felt paralyzed by panic at the idea of speaking. If I opened my mouth, all of the ugly words flitting across my mind might come tumbling out. To him, of course, it just felt like I was punishing him with my silence.
I knew it was bad. I wanted to run away, but I also loved him and couldn’t bear the idea of truly leaving. Somehow, even though I knew it was hurtful, I didn’t register it as “abuse.”
That would take another two relationships destroyed by the same behavior.
Though I began counseling therapy in the wake of becoming suicidal with guilt for finally leaving Rowan and breaking his heart, it wasn’t until the end of my third long-term relationship that I finally woke up to the realization that my behavior had been abusive. That I was an abuser. And that if I ever wanted to love anyone ever again, I had to change.
It’s been almost a decade since then, and I can say I have changed. I’ve gotten on medication, I still see a therapist, and I’ve done lots and lots of reading and practice on both supporting my own mental health and sustaining healthy practices in relationships. I can express hurt and anger in honest terms without being cruel. I can self-soothe when someone isn’t available, and I don’t take their absence personally. I don’t punish them if their response isn’t helpful, though I may explain that it isn’t helpful and disengage for a little bit, always making sure to thank them for trying both in the moment and later.
Above all, I finally feel safe and secure in my friendships. I feel complete trust and peace most of the time. On occasion, I still get anxious and uncomfortable, but being secure allows me to see the anxiety and discomfort for what it is, and to address it by voicing it with ownership and self-understanding instead of blame, then asking for reassurance. Crucially, I can believe that reassurance when it’s offered. These healthier practices and emotional states have become normal for me now, after a lot of struggle and intentional effort.
In my last two romantic relationships, which happened after my bigger breakups and doing the work to improve, I was on the other side of the coin. But those relationships allowed me to prove to myself that I could express my feelings, set boundaries, and handle my emotions in an ethical, constructive way, even under the duress of someone else lashing out at me. These relationships didn’t last nearly as long as my previous ones, because I was fully aware of what was healthy and unhealthy, and that breaking up with those partners was the best thing I could do for both of us.
After all, when I was abusive, losing my relationships was the impetus for change. By having to suffer those losses, I had the opportunity to see them as the consequences of my abusive behavior, and thus the opportunity to consciously choose growth.
A couple years after my cousin and his girlfriend broke up, she transferred back to the university I was attending, and I saw her in the student union building eating lunch. By that point, I had already grieved the end of my relationship with Rowan, and had started the work of understanding, bettering, and forgiving myself. So I went over to say hi.
We chatted for a bit, and she admitted with a nervous smile, “When you first came over here, I thought you were going to punch me in the face. I would have deserved it.”
I laughed at that, and explained my own situation to her. (For the record, I have never actually punched anyone in the face.) I don’t remember the rest of the conversation, but I think we both left feeling a little kinder towards ourselves, and I know I felt a sense of hope about the progress I was making.
So, if you’re still undecided about whether people can change, I believe that they can. The bad news is, it usually takes people hitting rock bottom — or at least falling a few rungs down the ladder — to make them realize they need and want to do it. Maybe you’re the one who’s at that point, and you’re wondering if it’s worth trying, wondering if there’s any hope of being better. Yes, there is. You can do it. You can be the kind of person that helps other people feel safe and loved, while feeling secure in the love you know they have for you.
If you have a partner, family member, or friend who you love and wish would change and treat you better… there are no easy answers, and I’m deeply sorry that you’re in that situation. Couple’s or family counseling might help, if it’s within your means. Enforcing your boundaries by removing levels of access to you based on your own safety may change things. But, and I know it can be painful to hear this, it’s also possible that leaving the relationship might be the right and best thing you can do, and if you’re looking for permission or a sign from the universe, this is it:
You deserve a relationship where your prevailing feelings are peace and security rather than sadness and anxiety about how the other person treats you. Most relationships are not completely free of occasional tension, but healthy ones don’t leave you worried about — or resigned to — when you might be punished next. You are worthy of being treated with care and loving regard. You are allowed to set boundaries and to enforce them. You are allowed to leave.
Whatever decision you make, make it for yourself, based on what you want for your well-being. If you’re worried that’s selfish, well, you’re allowed to be “selfish” in this regard. This time, being “selfish” is actually the right thing to do.
I’m talking to readers of any gender, in any kind of relationship: romantic, platonic, familial, even professional. Given the specific context of this essay, though, I do want to take a moment to say that women are emotionally abusive more often than is widely talked about. Emotional abuse by women is common, which should not be surprising, with how little education everyone is given regarding emotional management and healthy relationships.
We all already know that men can be abusive, and that women suffer horribly at the hands of men. We also know that people of all walks of life who suffer abuse often feel too ashamed to talk about it, somehow believing that it was their own fault, or at the very least, not really the abuser’s fault.
So men, I’m talking to you, too: it is not okay for a girlfriend to routinely hurt you, even if it’s because she herself is suffering. It’s still abuse, and it’s still wrong. You are allowed to leave.
And women and nonbinary folks being abused by women or anyone else, regardless of if they’re family or friends or lovers or bosses or coworkers: It’s still abuse, it’s still wrong, and you are allowed to leave.
If you would like to read more about recognizing abusive behavior, here are some articles to start with from WebMD, Verywell Health, and Healthline.
If you would like to read more about cultivating healthy relationships, some good starting books are Emily Nagoski’s Come as You Are and A Scientific Guide to Successful Relationships, and John Gottman’s The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work and The Relationship Cure. You can find free resources from them on their websites here and here.
Finally, if you would like to read more about supporting your own mental health and well-being, I would recommend reading about cognitive-behavioral therapy and dialectical-behavioral therapy, mindfulness and mindfulness meditation (I’ve enjoyed books by Jon Kabat Zinn, though they can be dense reading), attachment styles, and topics in positive psychology (the psychology of human flourishing, not the psychology of “being positive”) such as resilience, gratitude, and character strengths.
Thank you for reading. If you’re on your own journey of growth, survival, or recovery, I’m wishing you all the best. Hang in there.
