This Time, It's For Real.

You know what to do, right? Lock your door and call the police.

​In the early days of the aftermath, your therapist and a close friend are laying out the ground rules. They work on domestic violence cases, situations in which verbal and psychological abuse run rampant, situations like yours. Having more experience in this realm than you do, they spell out protective measures you should take step by step. It feels surreal. You feel as though you are floating above your life, looking down, thinking, this cant possibly be happening to me. You’re listening and nodding, agreeing to their every command. Lock doors, check. Call police, check. Don't answer, check. Call for help, check.

​No. This cant possibly be my life we’re talking about. Something about this feels a little silly and somewhat over the top. It’s not like we are talking about ‘real abuse,’ you know, like physical abuse. He didn't ever hit me.

​What is "real abuse"? Or, better yet, what is "fake abuse"? Is it only "real" if it involves physical violence? And is it "fake" when someone manipulates, threatens, and controls you but doesn't lay a hand on you? Is it "real" or "fake" when whispers of dread become your daily soundtrack, filling your ears and mind with an incessant hum of fear? Is it "real" or "fake" when you live in constant fear of verbal or emotional backlash, and are unsure what version of him you'll get today? The anxiety crawls under your skin like swarms of tiny, invisible ants. And, is it "real" or "fake abuse" when you're in a state of constant anxiety, walking on eggshells, your nervous system shot from continual vigilance? Your heart flutters with the beat of an unpredictable rhythm, pounding harder with each step, each breath a shallow gasp as you tread this thin and cracking ice.

​He may not be beating you, and there might not be bruises, but the result here is no different from physical violence, your therapist says with alarm in her voice. This relationship is dangerous. You are in danger, she adds, emphasizing every syllable and every word. Your ears begin to ring. You feel your stomach turn and coil. You don't want to take her seriously, but you do. You trust her, so you do.

​The next few days are a blur. On one hand, you’re grieving the ending of a relationship, as any ordinary course of events would have it. On the other hand, you are vigilant and on guard. You feel shaky, nervous, and sick to your stomach. Your mom refuses to leave you alone. The two of you embark on a sleepover with no end in sight. I’m fine, I promise! You beg. She rejects your plea to be left alone. She and your sister are both demanding, I’m really not comfortable leaving you alone. You don't resist their efforts. Your mom stays with you for a week, and then you transport yourself to her house the next week. Physically, you’re hardly alone. In your heart, you feel a vast solitude.

​Safety measures, security, exit plans, and emergency contacts. How is this my life?!? You try to convince yourself and your friends and family that this is all unnecessary, a little over the top. Deep down, you wonder, but is it too much? If you’re honest, you don't know. Safety feels fleeting at best. When was the last time you felt safe in the relationship? You pause and wonder. I don't know. I don’t remember. I don't remember what that is like anymore. Hearing the words come out of your mouth breaks your own heart. Giving life to a truth you don’t want to know.

​I don't trust him. This is the time you are in serious danger. Please be careful. Hearing this from people you trust makes your body tingle and your ears echo. It’s what you imagine happens to people in a natural disaster or crisis when you think, this happens, but it doesn't happen to‘people like me.’ No. This is stuff you hear about, you know, out there, but this doesn't happen to me. None of us is immune to this.

​Something inside of you follows their commands to “be careful” and “you shouldn't be alone right now.” You’re used to following commands at this point. He’s trained you well. You dare not fall out of line lest you suffer the consequences.

You’ve run through these safety conversations more than once now, because the two of you have broken up more than once — a pattern that’s been difficult to break. Each time is more serious than the last. Each time, your support system is more fearful for you and more insistent on your need to protect yourself. Your body becomes accustomed to the process. It becomes a kind of monotony and rhythm that you follow with routine memory.

Each time you lock your door, you remind yourself that you’re not just going through the motions. And, you’re not just keeping him out. You’re choosing yourself for the first time in longer than you can remember. It isn’t a bid for the dramatic. It’s a bid for yourself, for your protection, for your safety, and for your peace.

Your fingers touch the gold knobs of the deadbolt. Turn. Click. This time, maybe, you’ll understand it’s for real.