The Night I Didn’t Die: Broken, But Breathing

People think that once you leave an abusive relationship, it’s over. They believe that getting out means you’re free, that the pain just stops. But that’s not the reality. The same reasons that kept me there for so long are the ones I still struggle with today. It’s not just about why I stayed. It’s about how that mindset still affects me, even years later.

When it started, I was only 20 years old. I didn’t know it was abuse. I didn’t know that not all violence looks the same. I thought abuse meant constant fear, someone being angry and controlling all the time. But that’s not how it was with him. Most of the time, he was just himself: fun, charming, and the person I loved.

The first time he hit me, it came out of nowhere. One minute we were just being us, and the next, his hand was on my face. The shock hit me before the pain did. I froze, not because I wasn’t scared, but because I couldn’t comprehend that it had really happened. He cried afterward, saying he didn’t mean it, blaming the alcohol, promising it would never happen again. I wanted to believe him because I didn’t know any better. I was young, and I didn’t understand what domestic violence looked like. I thought abuse meant constant danger, not these sudden outbursts from someone I loved.

I went back. I didn’t know that by doing so, I was setting a pattern. Not just with him, but in my own mind. I didn’t know that forgiving him would make me start questioning my own instincts. I didn’t know that staying that first time would make people around me stop taking it seriously.

That first time I went back, it was like a switch flipped in how others saw me. It was as if my decision to forgive him made it okay. From that moment on, no one around me seemed to take it seriously. They didn’t say it outright, but I could feel it. The way they shrugged off my bruises and made light of the obvious situation. It made me question myself. If they weren’t worried, maybe I was the one making it a bigger deal than it was.

And because I convinced myself that it wasn’t that bad, it became harder and harder to leave each time. Every time it happened again, I’d tell myself the same things: it wasn’t constant, it wasn’t all the time, and maybe I could just handle it. I would think about the good times, the calm periods in between, and convince myself that those outweighed the bad. I didn’t realize that the cycle had me trapped, not just physically, but mentally.

Even now, people still say things like, “It couldn’t have been that bad,” or, “At least you’re out now, so why dwell on it?” They say it so casually, not realizing the impact of their words. Those comments hit me harder than they know because they don’t just remind me of what happened. They make me relive it. It’s like I’m right back in that moment, waking up on the floor, lying in my own blood, my hair tangled with glass, chunks of it missing, my face swollen and throbbing. I remember the fear sinking in, the realization that if I didn’t leave, I might not survive the next time. That was the moment I knew it had gone too far, that I couldn’t take another chance. I still carry scars on my face from that night, and no matter how much time has passed, every dismissive comment makes me feel like I’m right back there, terrified and fighting to survive.

That moment changed everything for me. It was the last time he put his hands on me, but it didn’t end the pain. After leaving, I didn’t just wake up one day and feel healed. I was still carrying all that trauma, and I didn’t know how to cope. That’s when drinking became my escape. I wasn’t drinking to party or have fun. I was drinking to forget, to push down the memories that wouldn’t leave me alone. I needed something to numb that fear and confusion because they never really went away.

But instead of people seeing it for what it was, a way to drown out the pain, they just labeled me as the party girl, as if that was just who I was. They didn’t ask why I was drinking so much or what I was running from. They just assumed that was part of me. I didn’t know how to explain that I wasn’t drinking to have a good time. I was drinking because I didn’t know how else to make it stop.

For years after leaving, I was still dismissed. People didn’t see a survivor, they just saw someone who drank too much and seemed emotional. They didn’t connect it to what I had survived. They didn’t realize I was still carrying all that hurt and guilt. I had never been that way before him, but after leaving, it was like I didn’t know who I was without trying to numb myself.

For years after getting out, I couldn’t escape that doubt. I would catch myself thinking, “Maybe I really did make it worse than it was.” I had spent so many years minimizing it that I didn’t know how to let myself feel the reality of it. I didn’t know how to tell myself it was real and it was wrong without immediately pushing it down and pretending it wasn’t that serious.

Sometimes I still feel that way. When I talk about it now, I find myself holding back, softening the truth because I don’t want to sound dramatic. I don’t want to hear the comments that make me feel like I’m just seeking attention or dragging it out. It’s easier to downplay it, to tell myself it wasn’t that bad, because that’s what I did for so long.

I didn’t know that leaving wouldn’t mean the pain would end. I didn’t know that I’d spend years afterward still fighting to believe my own story. The doubts don’t just disappear when you’re out. They linger. They make you feel like you’re stuck in that cycle even when you’re physically free.

It’s hard to explain to people why it still affects me. It’s hard to talk about the fear that sneaks up on me when I hear loud voices or feel trapped. I can’t just leave those memories behind because they’re a part of me now. The scars may have healed on the outside, but the way I question myself hasn’t.

If you’re reading this and you’re still questioning yourself, still wondering why you stayed or why it still hurts, know that you’re not alone. Just because you left doesn’t mean it’s over. Just because you survived doesn’t mean you don’t still carry it with you. It’s okay to still be angry, to still feel confused. It’s okay to acknowledge that just because you made it out doesn’t mean the pain just disappears.

Your truth is enough. You don’t have to convince anyone else. You know what you went through. You know how it changed you. It doesn’t matter if people around you don’t get it. You survived, and that’s what matters.

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With heart, truth, and the power of duality,

Lindsay-Michele

Living, healing, and guiding in both the sunshine and the shadows.

🖤 www.lindsay-michele.com | @downtherabbithole.lm