I Stayed for 7 Years. He Put My Tooth Through My Lip. This Is What Domestic Abuse Really Looks Like.
CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains raw descriptions of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse.
The orange soda can exploded against the trailer wall like a firecracker.
Fizz and sticky liquid sprayed everywhere—across the cheap linoleum, down the faded wallpaper, soaking my socks. I stood there, heart hammering, while he screamed inches from my face that this was my fault.
That was the beginning. Not the end.
I was twenty-four. Fresh out of a long relationship where people only ever said “Belle and AJ” like we were one person. When that ended, I had nothing—no parents, no real support system, just a deep hole where belonging should have been. So I jumped straight into him.
He was tall, tan, athletic—everything my last boyfriend wasn’t. The sex was electric. The drinking was fun. Two days later I moved my stuff into a 10x10 shed in his parents’ backyard. We called it the love shack.
It was anything but.
The first shove came soon after. Then the dragging—his fist twisted in my hair, pulling me down the narrow trailer hallway while my knees burned against the carpet. The choking until the room went fuzzy. The beatings with belts and cords wrapped in towels so the bruises wouldn’t show at work the next day.
He drank like breathing. I told myself I was fine—just weed, just “social” drinks. But the nights melted together in a fog of rage and regret.
We broke up briefly. When we got back together, the interrogations began. Who were you with? Who did you fuck? Every day. Every night. Until I cracked and threw out random names just to make the questions stop.
The punishment happened at his parents’ house.
He dragged me into the bathroom, stripped me naked, and made me get on the floor in the positions I supposedly used with those other men. His parents slept one room away. His daughter was on the pull-out couch in the living room. He flicked lit cigarettes at my bare skin and poured cold water over me while telling me exactly how worthless and disgusting I was.
Later on the porch, he tackled me like a football player. I flew off the railing, hit the ground screaming for help at the top of my lungs.
His mom came out: “What are you screaming for? Get back in the house. Shut the fuck up.”
The next morning I wrote HELP in pen on the back of my hand and showed it to his dad by the kitchen sink while coffee brewed. He glanced, then looked away.
I eventually slipped out and drove to the police station. Sat in a tiny, grimy room across from a guy I went to high school with and told my story while shame tried to choke me harder than he ever had.
That was 2009. The first time he went to jail for what he did to me.
It wasn’t the last.
In 2015 his fist connected with my face so hard my tooth tore straight through my lip. The old scar tissue made it worse. Seventeen stitches. The jagged scar is still there—permanent, impossible to hide. I see it every time I look in the mirror.
We had children together. The cycle of addiction, codependency, breakups, and makeups dragged on for years. He’s been to jail multiple times. Prison twice. Domestic charges every single time.
Recently, his newest girlfriend left him too. She carries the same haunted look I used to see in my own reflection. Now both of us watch him line up the next woman, knowing the pattern continues.
Domestic violence doesn’t pick sides. It’s man on woman, woman on man, same-sex—doesn’t matter. It thrives in codependency, untreated addiction, mental health struggles, and a culture that still says “keep it in the house.”
I wasn’t blameless. I was sick. I abandoned myself completely. I minimized the horror. I hoped love would fix what was broken in both of us.
If you’re in it right now—the eggshells, the apologies that never stick, the bruises you cover with makeup and long sleeves—listen:
You are not crazy.
You are not alone.
You are not worthless.
Leaving is terrifying. The fear is suffocating. The pull back feels like gravity. But there is life on the other side. Real life. Real peace. Real strength you haven’t met yet.
Resources if you need them right now:
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE)
Text START to 88788
Local shelters and advocates—reach out. They’ve seen it all.
To every survivor reading this: your story matters. The raw, ugly, embarrassing parts included. Share them in the comments if you feel safe. Silence protects the cycle. Truth breaks it.
I stayed seven years. I carry the scar. But I also carry my voice now—and I’m never muting it again.
Progress is messy. Progress is painful.
But progress is possible.
If this hit you, share it. Someone in your circles might be waiting for permission to speak.
What’s your story? Drop it below. Let’s talk real.
Amazing post. How can women warm other women about these men? We need to mark them somehow
Belinda, I truly want you to know that writing this takes a lot of courage. I deeply admire your courage in sharing your story. Sending you warm hugs 🫶