I was in a relationship between the ages of 19 and 24. It was on and off, because the warning signs were there, but I kept going back. Messages to other women on a phone I always felt compelled to look at in the dead of night, but could never confront him about. Not contacting me for a week, screening all my calls and texts, then re-appearing as if nothing had happened. I was the needy one.
Leaving me, then promising me the world just so I'd go back and sleep with him one last time. I was the desperate one.
A used condom in the bin when I'd gone to visit him after being home from university. Another woman not even hidden. I was the paranoid one.
Belittling me and criticising me in front of my friends. Being the life and soul of my party while I hid in the corner. I was the one who couldn't take a joke.
Turning me into someone I couldn't understand. Someone I didn't recognise. Someone who was weak, foolish, a mug. I went to counselling, therapy. He thought it would be good for me. I was the one who couldn't cope.
Three sessions in, I realised it wasn't me who needed to be there. It wasn't me who was flawed or helpless or messed up. I cried to my friends and I saw the truth. And eventually, I let him go. I was the strong one. I was the one who hadn't seen him for what he was and couldn't break free. But then I was the one who broke free. After him, I am the happy one. I am the life lived to the fullest.