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“Just because someone doesn’t hit you doesn’t mean they aren’t hurting you.” –Lundy Bancroft

My interpretation: We have been taught to measure abuse in bruises. But harm does not always leave fingerprints. Sometimes, it shows up in silence, in control, in the way your boundaries are ignored with a smile. It still counts. It is still real. People are going to talk regardless of if they knew your story; if/when you are ready – your story might save someone else.

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It was not violent. He did not scream. He did not shove me. He did not slam the door or leave visible marks.

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But he did call me names.

He called me a bitch – often.

Sometimes worse. Sometimes under his breath. Sometimes with a laugh.

& for a long time, I did not think I could call it abuse.

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Because when people ask why I stayed, I do not have an answer that makes them nod in understanding. I do not have a dramatic story, or a hospital visit, or a police report.

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All I have is the way my stomach dropped when he said, “Come on, don’t make it a thing.”

The way I laughed it off – because what else could I do?

The way he rolled his eyes when I pulled away.

The way he guilted me into staying quiet.

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Every argument became about what I did not do for him.

I did not “put out enough”.

I did not do x, y, or z – even though I paired his socks & folded his underwear.

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He guilted me like it was a form of love.

Like I owed him more than I ever had the chance to offer myself.

He said:

• I was too sensitive.
• That I could never take a joke.
• That I took everything too seriously.
• That I was always misunderstanding him – when really, I was finally starting to understand myself.

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He made himself look good to everyone else.

Kind. Patient. Charming.

& when things went wrong – it was always my fault. I was the emotional one. The dramatic one. The ungrateful one.

He did not tell me I could not leave.

He just made it harder to imagine who I would be without him.

He did not say I was worthless.

He just stopped treating me like I mattered.

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He slowly separated me from the people who saw me clearly.

Made me think it was my choice. That it was what partnership looked like.

But I was wrong. That was not partnership. That was control, dressed up as devotion.

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& when I finally started talking about it – really talking about it – the world wanted receipts. Wanted proof. Wanted bruises.

But I only had my voice.

& the echo of all the times I said no & he pretended not to hear it.

It was not violent.

But it was not okay.

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You do not need scars to be believed.

You do not need to prove it hurt.

You do not need to explain why you stayed –

only why you are done staying silent.

& maybe you are not there yet.

Maybe you are still untangling the stories he planted in your head.

Maybe you still flinch at the word “abuse”.

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But here is what I know:

If you have ever wondered whether it “counts,”

that is probably because someone taught you it did not.

They were wrong.

It counts.

You count.

& no matter how quiet the harm –

you still get to name it.

Xoxo ♡