This Is What it Looked Like

It didn’t look like bruises.

It looked like eye rolls when I said I was tired.

It looked like slammed cabinets when I asked for help.

It looked like being called crazy in front of our children.

It didn’t look like screaming all the time—

just enough to make the air thick,

just enough to make my son curl up in his room with his hands over his ears,

just enough to make holidays feel like landmines.

It didn’t look like cheating.

It looked like love letters to strangers in his phone.

It looked like laughing when I asked for honesty.

It looked like punishing me with silence because I was “too hard to love.”

It didn’t look like isolation.

It looked like him taking my keys.

It looked like pacing the house at midnight because he “needed to talk.”

It looked like hiding medicine in my purse because my heart couldn’t take it anymore.

It didn’t look like the movies.

And that’s why I stayed longer than I should have.

But I don’t owe anyone a palatable version of what I lived through.

Not now, not ever.

I’m not here to name names.

I’m here to name patterns.

Because someone out there is in a relationship that doesn’t “look that bad.”

And she needs to know:

If your body is shutting down from the stress,

If your children flinch at the sound of his voice,

If you have to defend your sanity just to get through the day—

It’s not love.

And it’s not your fault.

You don’t have to tell your story to anyone else.

But if you do— let it be for you.

Because telling the truth doesn’t make you bitter.

It makes you free.

And I’m free now.