It’s a hideous, painful and often bewildering rite of passage for many women (and some men but most often women). An emotionally abusive relationship never starts out that way. It starts out exciting and usually with great sex. Lots of passion. Highs. But also lows. This drama cycle can easily be mistaken for True Love. A deep connection. Intense intimacy.
But what it is is just toxic and destructive for the victim of abuse. I know this because I’ve been there. I wrote about my relationship with “Charlie” at length in my memoir Mamamia and even though it was years ago in my early twenties, writing about it felt raw and real and recent.
I’m a confident person. Even was back then. I had a great job. I earned my own money. Rented my own apartment. Owned a car. “Charlie” had none of those things. And yet he still managed to cast a twisted spell over me that slowly saw me isolated from my friends, family and anyone who could say “what the fuck are you doing? Get OUT of there.”
It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know the true extent of it. One of the quirky signatures of emotionally abusive relationships is that the victim actively protects her partner. I didn’t want to tell anyone the truth because I knew they would all judge Charlie and just tell me to dump him. Because that was exactly what I should have done. But for some perplexing reason, I didn’t want to. I was in his grasp. And that isolation made me extremely vulnerable to his manipulation. Even more vulnerable.