He never hit me. He had been taught by his father that you must never hit a woman.
He told me that my degree was a waste of time and money. If my opinion differed from his, he told me I was stupid. If I didn't want to do the same things as him, he told me I was boring. He told me I would never get the job I applied for. When I did get it he then told me he knew the job better than me. He accused me of deliberately breaking the iron, then of lying when I denied it. He told me I wasn't worthy of his love. He told me I was just like his ex. He threatened to tell everyone what I was "really" like. He told me not to make him angry. He told me it was my fault that he behaved the way he did when he was drunk because I knew what he was like. He told me I'd never really loved him properly.
But he never hit me. Even though sometimes I wished he would. Because that would be easier. I'd have something to show for it. A cut or a bruise that would heal and be gone.
He didn't break my heart so much as sandpaper it away, little by little at a time, until I was numb and empty. A broken heart can at least be glued back together, but a heart that has been ground to dust and blown away on the winds has to be grown again from scratch.
So I grew a new one. And this one is mine.