Why “I Love You” is Something I’d Prefer Never to Hear Again

I read the stories of women who bravely speak up and share. I think it’s my turn…

When I was 15, I had a friend (I’d actually met him when I was 13), who was much older (21). We were just friends, but my mother, who was one of the most loving, tolerant and accepting people I’ve ever known, absolutely abhorred him. We hung out at the apartment with my mum and siblings and played cards. He listened to me play the piano and praised me for my talent. He told me I was smart and special and beautiful. We went for walks and coffee. I knew his friends. His family. There was nothing sexual; no kissing, no touching, nothing.

When I went out on my own, just before turning 16, he was still my friend. He took me to bars and concerts (and yes, I recognize now that taking a child, as I really was, to bars was wrong). He bought me meals, and would sometimes drive me home from work. He offered money, but even then, I was stubborn about making my own way.

When I had a date that went really, really bad, he was the one I called to come and get me. He beat up the man that assaulted me.

He had the cutest little dog. He beat the dog.

For my 16th Christmas (I had to work, so I couldn’t take the time off to travel home to my family), he bought me a winter coat, and took me to his parent’s house for Christmas dinner.

I went home with him that night, and he told me he loved me. I fell in love. He was everything and he loved me. I moved in with him, to share costs, and because I loved him. I took on a 2nd job, part time, because I loved him and to show him that I was someone worthy of his love.

He must have loved me, or he’d wouldn’t have told me that I was too fat so I should get in better shape — I was 5'6", 120 lbs.

He must have loved me, or he wouldn’t have taken me to strip bars to see how real women were sexy for their men — I was his worst lay, ever.

He must have loved me, or he wouldn’t have taken all the money I made from both jobs because I was lazy, stupid, useless and expensive to keep.

He must have loved me or he wouldn’t have whispered it in my ear the first time he hit me because I didn’t want sex.

Or the second time, because dinner was not ready when he got home, early, and I was late getting home from my 2nd job.

Or the third time, because he was yelling at me, and I wouldn’t look at him, and when I did make myself look, I was looking at him disrespectfully.

By this time, I was a whole 16 1/2 years old…and it had taken him 3 whole months to break me.

I wasn’t allowed to talk to my family because he loved me. I wasn’t allowed out of the apartment without him, except for work, because he loved me. One day a week, I was allowed to be an hour late coming home so I could grocery shop on the way.

He really loved me, he told me so all the time, as he ground me into nothing.

People I worked with were noticing the usual things…long sleeves in the summer and a couple of more perceptive ones saw me disintegrating and noticed the personality changes.

The last time he hit me was because a male co-worker had given me a ride home during a snow storm. This time it was in the face.

I had started stealing money from his wallet, just little bits at a time, since I had no control over my own earnings. I had learned how to make the grocery money stretch a little further and added some of it to my cache. The last time he hit me, he stormed out saying that I was lucky he loved me or he might kill me. He warned me that he would be back and that I was to be ready to earn his forgiveness, which was usually done with soul disintegrating and painful, shaming sex.

I left. With just the clothes I was wearing, my hidden money stash and my bruised face. I didn’t take the coat he’d bought me. If I was going to die, it wouldn’t be wearing that coat.

I took the dog he also “loved” with me, and dropped her at the Animal Shelter on my way to whatever unknown hell I was running to, to escape the known hell I was living.

From the gas station payphone across the street from the shelter, I called a number I had memorized. One of the people I had met at my full time job, who had noticed that I might be in trouble, had given me his number, just in case.

In the middle of a snow storm, this kind man came and picked me up. It took him just over an hour to get to me, but I was still standing at the payphone I’d called him from. With no coat. No bag. A bruised face.

He asked if I was ok, but I couldn’t speak. He asked if I was hungry, but I couldn’t speak. He asked several other questions, but realized that I was incapable of speech, as I could only shake my head. He took me to a motel, booked and paid for a room for a week, gave me $20.00 and left.

I was 17.

End of this chapter…This has been even more difficult than I knew it might be and, honestly, it still makes me want to cry. I don’t cry. I won’t cry. Never again for this.

These memories are so vivid — if I close my eyes, I can smell that apartment I was beaten in. I can smell his anger and my fear. I can feel my head hit the wall as his fist slammed into my cheek. I can feel the bruises on my arms, back and breasts. All these years later, it’s still there.

I remember how bright and hopeful I was at 16, and the dreams that I had and who I thought I would be. It’s hard to be vulnerable and open while struggling to remember that I will never allow it to happen again, and that my strength, my moxy, came from rebuilding that broken child to the woman that I am. Still broken by life and it’s gifts, sadly, but this memory no longer defines me, it’s just part of my journey.

Most days, I am now ok and can accept that it happened, and that it wasn’t my fault. I can forgive myself for being blind to the red flags that were madly waving at me before any of this happened.

Just don’t tell me you love me…