eeping, I slowly push myself up off the basement floor. Bruises are likely on my shins, maybe my right arm, from the stairs; but my feelings, my heart, my trust, will be more deeply damaged. “Get the hell out of my house!” he screams, spit slapping my terrified face. What did I do to deserve this? I’ve asked myself this question over and over.

knew Daemon for two weeks when he told me he loved me. He made every effort to make me happy, take me out, tell me how beautiful he thought I was. Immediately, he trapped my heart. I remember him asking my father out for coffee, to gain his trust, to make him feel comfortable with the man who wanted to date his daughter. “Wow,” I whispered to myself, “this man is something special.” How confident, kind, and trustworthy he seemed. My ideal man. But soon enough my perfect view of him would crumble. It took only one week for Daemon to reveal his true character.

f you don’t tell your dad to back off, we’re through,” he threatened. I couldn’t figure out what my dad did that would have seemed inappropriate or worth cutting him off for, but my heart was already Daemon’s, so I regrettably and harshly removed my dad’s protection over me with no legitimate reason. Soon, I would cut off all my family, friends, anyone who would have been honest with me concerning my situation. I would have no one to talk to, be honest with, ask for help from. I had only Daemon.

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wo weeks. My name changed from honey or baby to stupid childish bitch. Screaming at me with no apparent reason became normal. We were sitting peacefully watching FRIENDS one night, and he flipped. I couldn’t recall what changed within seconds, but in an instant he was angrily running out the door. I received a call from him not a minute later, “why would you just let me leave like that?” he accused, yelling so loudly I had to hold my phone several inches away from my ear. “I didn’t,” responding defensively. He hung up on me, then called back seconds after, saying, “Fine! You wanna act like that? You’re so childish. Can’t you ever handle things like an adult?” These bipolar shifts were frequent and usually accompanied by the same demeaning phone calls and hang ups. Everything was my fault.

hree weeks. We slept together. I didn’t want to. His anger got worse, and I was scared. I couldn’t tell my parents because I had told them I didn’t want them involved; I was stubborn and embarrassed. I couldn’t tell my friends because I had none left. I was stuck. I couldn’t see past the blackness I was buried in. I thought I was already in too deeply to get out.

t four weeks, he had to know where I was, who I was with, what I was doing every hour. I was at home watching movies with my brother when I missed Daemon’s call. Once the movie ended, I returned his call. He was yelling again, “Where were you? I know you’re just blowing me off.” I had told him I wanted to hang out with my brother that night, but he didn’t believe me. “You’re such a pathetic liar.” But I wasn’t lying. I was at work one day and got interrupted while with a client. “Daemon is on the phone for you,” a coworker informed me, “he says it’s an emergency.” “Why are you ignoring my calls?” Again, anger spewing out, his delusional mind exercising twisted thoughts about me. I hung up, knowing I had to get back to work. Three hours later, I left work. My phone had thirteen text messages and five

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voicemails totaling about twelve minutes long. “Stupid bitch.” “We’re through.” “I can’t believe you’re blowing me off.” I called him back only to hear those words repeated live. What was I thinking?

ive weeks. I told him I needed to take a break. He called me four times in a row. I didn’t answer. He called my mom and said he was worried about me because I wasn’t answering my phone. I didn’t give him her number. He must have taken it from my phone unknowingly. He showed up to my salon, where I worked, to take me out to lunch. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of clients, so I went. He persuaded me not to break up with him. His words were so deceiving yet convincing. Not even 24 hours later, he was back to his usual treatment of me. “I need to borrow five bucks to grab some whiskey shooters,” he demanded. “Why do you need whiskey?” “Are you gonna give it to me or not? Don’t waste my time. I have a really bad head ache.” On top of everything else, I’m dating an alcoholic.

ix weeks in. My eyes are beginning to clear up. I stopped sleeping with him. I still saw him daily. He wouldn’t let me out of

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his sight. He became more violent. I didn’t want to sleep with him, so he screamed at me calling me a tease, a bitch, and a horrible girlfriend. He grabbed my arm and rushed me out of his house, threw me in my car and slammed the door on me. My arm lost feeling. Before I could start the car, he jumped in the passenger side. My face was black from my mascara, and my eyes were blurry from all the tears. He yelled at me for being inconsiderate. “You’re gonna wake up my roommate! I can’t believe how loud you’re being!” I told him he hurt me, and he responded, “You hit me first.” I hit him first. I hit him first? No I didn’t! My actions were being deformed in his head. I couldn’t speak without him twisting my words.

eek seven I stopped going to his house. He came to mine. He came to my work. Unannounced. I knew the only way to get rid of him was to tell someone what he really was. But who?

eek eight. I was done. He wouldn’t listen. New Year’s Eve, he showed up to my work again. I was the last one there that night. Around eight o’clock, he came inside, my last client had left. He wreaked of alcohol, his eyes bloodshot, his neck veins popping out like wires. “What are you doing here?” I asked with a tremble. “I was going to surprise you, but obviously you’re ungrateful so I’ll just leave.” He didn’t leave. He cornered me at the front desk, held my wrist down between his hot hand and the bruising wood-

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top desk. I wouldn’t look at him, so he roughly pulled my face toward his. This went on for several minutes until he finally gave up and turned around. He couldn’t believe I didn’t want to spend New Years with him. “You stupid ungrateful bitch!” I was done. I shut down the salon and left. He followed me to my house. He pushed himself inside. Thankfully, my family was home, so his demeanor changed instantly. He put on his act of the perfect boyfriend. He left at midnight.

was done. I told my dad, my mom, my brother and sister everything. As a result, Daemon ran. It only took one phone call. I threatened to call the cops if he didn’t stop trying to call and text me. He could tell this time I was serious. The harassment finally ended. He was gone. The guilty flee, and this devilish part of my life finally did just that. My wounds were far greater than bruises. My trust for others faded, my hope in happiness died, my joy fleeted.

omentary. This was all momentary. I went through counseling, I worked on building up trust again with my family. It’s been two years now. I still have a difficult time putting my trust in others, more specifically men. My hope, however, has been reawakened, and my joy restored.

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” ~Eleanor Roosevelt

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