The Scars You Can't See

 My relationship with my ex is difficult to think about. Sometimes I sit and wonder how I loved someone for so long when all he seemed to do was hurt me over and over again. I ask myself why I kept going back after all the arguments, the cruel words, and the physical violence.

The answer is simple, even if it's painful: I was scared. I was scared that no one else would ever love me.

He used to tell me that no one would want me because I had "baggage"—my two children. He convinced me that no one wanted a woman with two kids by two different men. He tried to control every aspect of my life, including who I was allowed to be friends with. Even when we weren't together, he still wanted control. Male friends were completely out of the question.

He called me horrible names. He made me feel worthless. He made me believe that I had to stay because he was right—who else would want me?

If I did something wrong in his eyes, I had to make it up to him. I would buy him food and bring it to him just so my children and I could be "allowed" to come over and see him. Looking back, I realize I was buying his attention. I was buying scraps of affection and convincing myself it was love.

But it wasn't love.

He rarely kissed me. He never hugged me. He never made me feel wanted. I was always the one initiating affection, and more often than not, I was rejected.

The worst night happened after he had been angry with me. He ended up beating me in front of my three-year-old son. If my son hadn't been there crying and screaming while I begged him to stop, I don't know what would have happened. When my son started crying, that's when he finally stopped.

My entire body was covered in bruises.

I took pictures as evidence. I even had my phone in my hand and was about to call 911 when he begged me not to. He promised me it would never happen again. But this wasn't the first time. It wasn't even the second. It was the third—and by far the worst.

The next day I had to go to the emergency room because I could barely walk. I ended up wearing an air boot because I had bruised the bones in my foot while kicking him away in an attempt to protect myself.

I lied to everyone.

I told people I had fallen down the stairs while carrying laundry, and everyone believed me.

Later, he took my phone and deleted the pictures so I could never prove what he had done.

He made me feel pathetic. He called me a bad mother. He tore apart my self-worth until I barely recognized myself. Looking back now, I honestly don't know how I survived that period of my life.

Sometimes it feels like it didn't even happen to me. I buried so much of that pain so deep that it almost feels like a story I read in a book rather than a life I actually lived.

But the effects never fully disappeared.

I carry a lot of PTSD from that relationship. I spent years in therapy working through what happened and rebuilding my mindset. I had friends who protected me, supported me, and helped me pick up the pieces when I couldn't do it alone.

When I eventually started dating again, I never wanted to bring that broken version of myself into another relationship. Any man who chose to be with me didn't deserve to carry the weight of my past.

There are still things that trigger me. The difference now is that I don't react the way I used to. Instead of exploding with emotion, I shut down. I go numb. I process things slowly because feeling all of that pain at once is overwhelming.

I've changed a lot over the years because I needed to. Because healing was healthier than staying stuck.

The hard part is that no matter how much I explain what I went through, people will never fully understand it. Truthfully, I don't even understand it myself. I still don't know why I stayed for so long.

Then I met my husband.

From the beginning, I knew he was a good man. I knew he wasn't the kind of person who would intentionally hurt me the way my ex did. I told him about my past. I explained my triggers. I told him how damaging yelling and name-calling were for me because those things immediately take me back to some of the darkest moments of my life.

I asked him not to do those things.

But there have been times when he has.

I know people get angry. I know people make mistakes. I know he's human.

What he doesn't fully understand is what those moments do to me.

He doesn't understand how quickly they transport me back to a place I've fought so hard to escape. He doesn't understand the doubt they create in my mind. The questions start flooding in.

Does he really love me?

If he loves me as much as he says he does, why does he do the very things I've asked him not to do?

Why would he intentionally hurt me?

Why doesn't he trust me enough to see all the ways I try to love him, support him, and make him happy?

Why don't I receive that same understanding in return?

And then the old feelings begin to creep back in.

The self-doubt.

The feeling of worthlessness.

The depression.

The emotional numbness.

Healing from trauma isn't something that happens overnight. The scars may not be visible anymore, but they still exist. And sometimes all it takes is one painful moment to remind me of everything I worked so hard to overcome.

And then I start blaming myself.

Maybe it's because of me that we fought.

Maybe it's because of my trauma that I react the way I do.

Maybe it's because of me that we can't get back to the way things were before.

Maybe it's always been me.

But then I stop and think about where those thoughts come from.

You know who taught me to think that way? My ex.

In his world, everything was my fault. Every argument. Every bad day. Every problem. Somehow, it always came back to me.

What hurts the most is that he never apologized. Not once.

Not for the names he called me. Not for the manipulation. Not for the violence. Not for any of the pain he caused me.

Instead, I was the one apologizing.

I apologized constantly, even when I knew deep down I had done nothing wrong. I apologized to keep the peace. I apologized to make him happy. I apologized because it was easier than fighting. I apologized because I thought that was what love required.

I spent years taking responsibility for things that were never mine to carry.

Maybe that's why apologizing is so difficult for me now. Maybe that's why I struggle with it sometimes. For years, I was forced to say "I'm sorry" when I wasn't the person who needed to be sorry.

Now, when conflict happens, those old wounds reopen.

When my husband tells me that it's my fault, it sends me right back to those years of hearing the exact same thing.

And suddenly, I'm left questioning everything.

Am I really the problem in my relationships?

Am I the person they say I am?

Am I truly this difficult to love?

This horrible?

This impossible?

I sit with those questions longer than I should.

I replay conversations in my head over and over, searching for answers. I analyze every word I said, every reaction I had, every mistake I may have made.

And sometimes I wonder if maybe I have too much trauma.

Maybe I'm too damaged.

Maybe what happened to me broke something inside of me that can never fully be fixed.

Maybe no one should have to deal with the baggage I carry.

But then another thought enters my mind.

What if I'm not the problem?

What if I'm simply someone who was hurt deeply and spent years learning how to survive?

I don't believe I intentionally hurt people. I don't wake up looking for conflict. I don't enjoy arguments. I don't want to fight with the people I love.

I think I respond to the energy I'm given.

When I'm treated with kindness, I give kindness.

When I'm treated with love, I give love.

When I feel safe, I open my heart completely.

But when someone comes at me with anger, criticism, or disrespect, I put my walls up. I defend myself. I match the energy because I promised myself a long time ago that I would never allow someone to walk all over me again.

For years, I stayed quiet while someone tore me apart piece by piece.

I ignored my own feelings.

I accepted treatment I never should have accepted.

I convinced myself that love meant enduring pain.

I survived that version of myself.

And now, sometimes I wonder if I've swung too far in the other direction. If protecting myself has become so important that I struggle to know when I'm defending myself and when I'm simply reacting from old wounds.

I don't have all the answers.

I don't know if my trauma sometimes makes situations harder than they need to be.

I don't know if there are moments when my fear speaks louder than reality.

What I do know is that healing isn't a straight line.

I know that surviving abuse changes you.

I know that being told for years that everything is your fault leaves scars that don't disappear just because someone new comes into your life.

And I know that there is a difference between being damaged and being human.

I am not perfect.

I have trauma.

I have triggers.

I have fears that still show up when I wish they wouldn't.

But I am also someone who loves deeply, cares deeply, and tries every day to be better than the version of myself that existed when I was trapped in that abusive relationship.

Maybe the question isn't whether I'm too much to handle.

Maybe the question is whether I can learn to stop carrying blame that was never mine to begin with.