Abuse in a relationship isn’t always easy to see at first. Sometimes, it hides behind sweet words, small compliments, or moments that feel like love. But over time, the truth comes out. The pain becomes louder than the promises. The silence becomes heavier than the words. I never thought I would be in an abusive marriage. I believed in love, respect, and building a home together. But what I experienced was pain, control, fear, and loneliness. This article is a part of my healing, and I’m sharing it so that anyone who is feeling stuck, confused, or broken can know—they are not alone, and they can find their way back to peace.
When Love Turns Into Pain: Realizing It Was Abuse
In the beginning, I thought it was love. My husband used to praise me, especially when I cooked. He would say things like, “No one cooks like you,” and make me feel special. I felt proud, thinking I was building a happy home. But slowly, the warmth started to fade. After we moved into our own house—with just me, my husband, and my son—everything began to change.
Suddenly, he stopped appreciating my cooking. Every time I served him food, he would find something wrong. “It’s missing something,” he’d say. “It’s not good.” During Ramadan, he refused to eat my meals and only had fruits. That made me feel like I wasn’t even good enough to feed my own husband. But now that I’ve left him, he’s eating food from roadside stalls, saying he can’t survive on fruits alone. It made me realize how fake and manipulative he was—how he used food and words to control me.
At first, I ignored the signs. I thought maybe he was just tired or stressed. I kept trying harder—cooking better, staying quieter, giving more—but nothing ever made him happy. I began to feel small, invisible, and broken inside.
It took me time to realize that what I was going through wasn’t just a bad relationship. It was abuse. The praise in the beginning was only a trick to keep me emotionally attached. After that, it was control, criticism, and pain. I thought love was supposed to make you feel safe and valued. But this love made me feel afraid, unloved, and alone.
Living Through Physical, Emotional, and Psychological Abuse
Living with abuse is like fighting a war no one else can see. Every day, I wore a smile outside, but inside, I was drowning. The pain wasn’t just in bruises—it was in the words, the silence, the looks, the control. My husband didn’t just hurt me physically—he broke me in ways that left scars on my soul.
He abused me in every way—physically, emotionally, verbally, financially, and psychologically. There were moments where he hit me, and moments where he said things so cruel, they cut deeper than any slap ever could. His words made me question my worth as a woman, as a wife, even as a mother. He would shout, criticize, and blame me for everything. Nothing was ever enough.
Emotionally, he made me feel like a failure. He would compare me, insult me, and then act like I was overreacting. He manipulated my feelings, made me doubt myself, and made me feel guilty for things I didn’t even do. I was walking on eggshells all the time—afraid of what might trigger his anger next.
Financially, he made sure I stayed dependent. Even when I had needs, I was made to feel like I was a burden. He used money as a way to control me, deciding what I could or couldn’t have, and making me feel like I didn’t deserve anything better.
Psychologically, he played with my mind. He created confusion, fear, and helplessness. The most painful part? Most of the abuse happened during intimate moments. He used sex as a weapon—not as an act of love, but as a way to show power. It left me feeling ashamed, unloved, and deeply alone.
He also isolated me—he didn’t want me close to friends or family. He slowly built a wall between me and the outside world. I wasn’t allowed to be my full self. I couldn’t talk freely, laugh freely, or even cry freely. I lived in a cage while pretending everything was okay.
This silent battle affected my mental health badly. I stopped feeling like a human. My sleep was disturbed, I couldn’t focus on anything, and I was constantly anxious. Even eating became difficult. I began to blame myself—thinking maybe I wasn’t good enough, maybe I deserved it, maybe I was the reason he was angry.
But the truth is—I didn’t deserve any of it. No one does. Abuse is never your fault.
The Moment of Truth: Finding the Strength to Walk Away
There comes a moment in every survivor’s life where silence becomes too loud to bear, where pain becomes too heavy to carry, and where you finally realize—you cannot stay any longer. That moment came for me after living through years of fear, pain, and emotional emptiness. I had given everything to save the relationship, but I was the only one trying. I was holding onto a love that never really held me back.
I don’t remember one single incident that changed everything—it was more like a collection of broken pieces finally falling apart. One day, I simply looked in the mirror and couldn’t recognize myself. The woman staring back at me had lost her spark, her confidence, her peace. That was my moment of truth. I realized: if I don’t save myself now, no one else will.
Leaving wasn’t easy. I was scared. I had spent years being told that I couldn’t survive without him. I had been emotionally weakened to believe that I wasn’t capable of living a life on my own. But somewhere deep inside, there was a small voice—a whisper of strength—that reminded me who I really was.
The courage didn’t come all at once. It came in small steps. I cried a lot. I doubted myself. But with each passing day, the pain of staying became greater than the fear of leaving. I chose my son. I chose peace. I chose myself.
I won’t lie and say it was easy. Walking away from someone you loved—even if they hurt you—is one of the hardest things a person can do. But I had reached my limit. I had sacrificed too much of myself. And I deserved more than just survival—I deserved to live.
That decision changed everything. It didn’t fix all my problems overnight, but it opened the door to healing, to hope, and to a life where I could finally breathe again.
Healing After the Storm: Reclaiming Peace and Rebuilding Life
After I walked away from the abuse, I stepped into a world that felt both scary and free. It wasn’t easy at first—there were days I cried without knowing why, nights I couldn’t sleep, and moments I felt completely lost. But slowly, gently, I began to breathe again. For the first time in years, I could hear my own thoughts without fear. I could move without permission. I could just be... me.
Healing didn’t happen in one big moment—it came in small, quiet steps. It came when I started choosing myself every day. When I began doing things I loved again—watching movies, going on long drives, cooking not to please someone, but to enjoy the moment. I surrounded myself with people who cared, who listened, and who reminded me that I was never alone. My friends became my strength. They believed in me even when I was too broken to believe in myself.
Writing helped me too. Every word I typed was like a release—a way to pour out the pain, the memories, the fears. Through writing, I found my voice again. I realized that my story, as painful as it was, had the power to help others. And that gave me purpose.
I also learned the power of forgiveness—not for him, but for me. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting what happened. It means letting go of the anger that keeps you tied to the past. I forgave so I could move forward, so I could be free. I stopped blaming myself. I stopped asking why he did what he did. Some questions will never have answers, and that’s okay.
Today, I protect my peace like a treasure. I’ve learned to say no without guilt. I’ve learned that love should never hurt, and respect should never be asked for—it should be given freely. I’ve built boundaries that I never had before, and I don’t allow anyone to cross them. Not anymore.
Freedom feels like peace in the morning, like laughter without fear, like silence that doesn’t hurt. It feels like finally being home inside yourself.
If someone reading this is stuck in an abusive relationship, wondering how to leave—please know that you can. You don’t have to wait for permission. You don’t have to wait for things to get worse. You are worth saving. You are worth loving. You are not alone.
Leaving is not weakness—it is the strongest thing you will ever do.
And healing... is the most beautiful.
You are not what happened to you. You are who you choose to become after it. And that choice starts with freedom.
