Emotional Abuse, PTSD, and the Moment Love Finally Breaks

Loving someone who shares your diagnosis does not mean the damage is shared equally.

This deeply personal essay explores emotional abuse in a relationship shaped by PTSD, grief, addiction recovery, and power imbalance. Through moments of silence, rage, reconciliation, and survival, it captures what it feels like to slowly realise that love can coexist with harm and that leaving is not betrayal, but clarity.

A story for anyone searching for language around trauma bonding, emotional manipulation, and the quiet strength it takes to finally let go.

History would tell me that in an abusive or unhealthy relationship when things are really good; brace yourself. The other shoe is lingering just above your head, hanging on by a proverbial thread. We were twenty seven days into the New Year with no arguments, no minor miscommunications that spin into an all out war, and nothing but a mutual respect for one another thus far.

But, I felt it crawling up my neck any time he called. Lonely silent treatments, being bullied into emotional submission, begging for forgiveness while I am not entitled to an apology myself. Because that was all my fault. Whatever the scenario. Isolated hell was waiting for me around every corner any time he said ‘I love you’ unprompted.

What is difficult about dating a Marine Corps veteran with the same diagnosis as you, is that their PTSD and failing mental health is legitimized. It’s been acknowledged on a wide scale in full agreement. Yes, this person IS unwell. They receive pay for their trauma, trials and tribulations. While I only get awkward holidays and uncomfortable visits back home, avoiding certain areas and streets all together. Going an additional twenty minutes out of my way just to make it back home on busy fully lit streets. Walking the long way uphill, winded and out of breath with each inclined step, I’d asked myself, ‘What is so broken inside of you that you could ever resent someone who is as equally damaged and in need of love as you?’

Though we shared an identical mental verdict, the symptoms of our affliction were polar opposites of one another. Anger engulfed him constantly, like a shroud of uncomfortable burlap only he could feel. You could see it boil over and spill in everyday scenarios he couldn’t manage. Screaming to everyone at his family’s dinner table to ‘fuck off or drive themselves’, after putting everyone buckled in and tethered to him and his car in jeopardy while he wrecklessly weaves in and out of cars at sixty miles an hour on residential roads. While mine was unending waves of sadness that crashed my shorelines unexpectedly. There were days that I could fake normalcy. Set myself on auto pilot just to get myself through the most basic self care tasks. Or if I could summon the strength and devotion to the cause, I’d method act Oscar worthy performances of a happy, content and grateful wife. Knowing full well I’m unable to hold a steady lifestyle or income which he, rightfully so, resented in return.

But other times, my grief and melancholy was like cellophane across my eyes. Visible for the whole world to see, except me.

We made such incredible progress lately. Listening to each other, and learning what aches us versus what uplifts us. Making resolutions and goals, shared and individual to go into the new year with a brighter view. How could we be back here with no idea of what tomorrow will bring?

It all started with FaceTime.

We’d spent the last two weeks on opposite sides of the country. His Grandfather had just passed away and his father stepped in to buy him and his sister round trip tickets to Florida to make it to the memorial. I’d asked if he would like me to join, paying my own way, or if I should at least call his Grandmother to send my heartfelt condolences.

“It’s probably best if you didn’t.”

He explained that she was fully aware of our recent two-month-long separation. I felt my jaw clench and temples throb. His anger found its way through my self-harbored sorrows, leeching onto my sides.

This September, after thirteen days of not speaking, avoiding rooms the other was in, and feeling his disgust and hostility cut right through me if we passed one another in hallways, I finally got the nerve to ask, “Why do you hate me?” He replied very poignantly, “I’m not going to pretend to like you.” Then he told me to pack my shit, and get the fuck out of his house already.

I quietly packed a small bag with items I couldn’t part with. My Grandmother's last Christmas cat shaped gift tag addressed to me before dying the following week. My chanchitos, a lucky three legged pig my sister gave me on my very first sale as a creative. A photo of my parents when they were in their twenties, smiling and beaming. And all of the methadone I was prescribed.

I wrote a one-page letter to my family apologizing, tucked it into the front pocket of my Caliber, and attempted suicide that night at a friend's house four hours away.

After two days of coming to, vomiting and snapping out of an overly medicated haze, I said I thought I was ok. Their faces resembled the reflection in all of the mirrors I had been avoiding. I had unintentionally traumatized them. They dropped me at the front doors of the hospital, wishing me well. I walked in, waiting for them to drive off before calling an Uber to my niece’s birthday party. Somehow, finding it within myself that day to put on another performance, only a mere forty-eight hours after writing my goodbyes to them all, I hugged my relatives and said how happy my partner and I were in our new home. But, it was when the role-playing Elsa in a poorly fitted wig started donning my niece in princess attire and singing to her that I felt the waves drown me.

I loudly gasped three sharp inhales and broke down. I blamed it on how sad I was to see her growing up so fast and excused myself. In part, at least that was true.

We didn’t speak for two months until he reached out to say his Grandfather passed away. Again, I quietly packed a small bag and called an Uber to go back to him.

“Ok,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’ll just go back home while you’re in Florida.”

I endured all I did those weeks alone without slipping up once on the happy conjugal facade. How could he do this to me?

Now, we were twenty-seven blissful days into the New Year when my phone rang. Lying in my parents' old bedroom, I answered as I slowly and intricately knitted double-crochet repetitions across a scarf I was making for his grieving Grandmother. Getting closer to the day of his return home, I’d asked if he would like me to Uber all the way home on that Wednesday or if he would like to pick me up on the 31st.

“Those are two different days”

“Yes, I am aware, I’m asking which is better. If I uber home on Wednesday after I go to Boston for my doctor's appointment or if I should come back home and wait for you to pick me up the 31st.”

“But I’m getting home on the 30th.”

“I know. I was going to give you the day to rest and then the next day you could drive down.”

“OK BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU FUCKING SAID.”

Whether it was a slip of tongue or not, for the first time in our history, I had a witness to rely on for an honest playback. Albeit, biased being my Mother, she still had the wherewithal and ability to not enable any of my bad behaviors having dealt with me in full addiction. She was honest enough to acknowledge the truth in any situation while still being mindful of my feelings. “Yes, you made a mistake, and he overreacted. I would feel hurt, too. But he is under a lot of stress right now.” 

Instead, she stood there horrified.

“You did nothing wrong.”

I’d somehow become Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting. She chased me around the house screaming, “YOU DID NOTHING WRONG!”

I locked myself in the bathroom and wept on the cold tile floor.

I repeated the same texts over and over and over again, receiving demeaning, screaming texts in all caps.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

I take full responsibility.

I was wrong.

Please, can we move on?

I need you here.

I love you.

Please say it back.

I finally broke. I typed the last text I could think of that may disarm him.

What do you need from me to move past this?

I NEED YOU TO JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP

I blocked him. I looked down, feeling that similar self-hatred and despair that turns to harmful acts against oneself, and remembered someone who loves me unconditionally, whether right or wrong, was standing just on the other side of the door dividing us.

“Honey, I heard it. And I know that you did nothing wrong.”

I wept harder. Dropping the imagined rope, I let go of harmful, premeditated thoughts. Deciding I could never inflict the underlying cause of all of our issues on someone who has lived every day of her life selflessly for me, my sister, and father.

I opened the door and collapsed in her arms.

He messaged me on Instagram to acknowledge that he was blocked. I said I was owed an apology for being spoken to that way, and if he obliged I’d gladly move right on and forget this ever happened. Or I would have to block him on social media as well.

Do whatever the fuck you want, I’m not apologizing for anything.

YOU caused all of this.

ITS FUCKING DAYS AND DATES.

IT’S A CALENDER-

Not letting the typing bubbles materialize into more hateful words, I pressed block. And sighed a breath of relief.

Looking at my lock screen to see him smiling during one of our short lived honeymoon phases, I did draw my attention back to time and dates.

It was 11:42, January 27th.

I unblocked him for just enough time to send one last message.

Happy Anniversary, by the way.

Today marks three years together.

My mother, unaware of that fact, has checked in on me all throughout the day. Mentioning I’m dealing with refusals from publishers, my mental health is on a downward slope, and I still haven’t heard from him, she sighed and said in earnest;

“It always comes in threes.”