“You hit me once, I hit you back. You gave a kick, I gave a slap
You smashed a plate, Over my head. Then I set fire to our bed.” — Florence and the Machine

Why do women stay? This is a question asked by psychologists and support group facilitators since domestic abuse came into public light. To the average observer, the woman appears stupid, pathetic, and ungrateful. After all, why would any woman allow themselves to be mentally manipulated, physically assaulted, and emotionally isolated from the world that supports her? The abuser promises he’ll never strike again, but he always does. And she forgives. Over and over again, she forgives.

But this is normal, right? It’s what a passionate relationship is all about.
Look at Rihanna and Chris Brown, Sean Penn and Madonna, Johnny Depp and Amber Heard. Jealousy, anger, screaming matches — maybe some strong grabs of the arm or some hair pulling. Soon, the pushing and shoving escalates to a punch in the face, but the woman knows she can change him. This is what women do, right? We stand by our men. We are their muses, their trophies, their saviors.

Like many of these women, I, too, unknowingly entered into the dark world of abuse. I am a strong, beautiful, and smart Latina woman and I took no shit from anyone. Until I met him.

“How does it feel? To treat me like you do?” — New Order

To the outside world we were the hot and passionate Selma Hayek-looking, Frida-loving Latina writer and her tortured but talented Mexican artist. We were the perfect Bohemian duo. Soon I would be the tortured one.

“I called you five times and now I find out you’re with your fucking girlfriends? That’s bullshit!!” I screamed into the phone. “Are you going to take off your fucking ring too?

As I waited at Starbucks for my husband of two months in hopes of surprising him with a night out, I felt a rush of jealousy run through my veins. My heart raced and my body shook. I knew he was fucking every single one of them. He hung up on me. In my jealous rage I called my best friend and demanded we go get a drink.

This was a typical day in my life with my husband, with whom I’d been in a relationship with for four years.

I met him through MySpace. We had the same tastes in music and film — he loved Spanish rock and Amelie. His profile picture was whack, wild hair and a purple hat. He was a 24-year-old artist who made screen printed T-shirts and I messaged him asking to buy one. I was 19 and naïve.

We agreed to meet at the West Covina Mall. He was riding the escalator and I locked eyes with his. He was wearing a black button-down long sleeve shirt and a paper boy hat with his black curls in a pony tail.

So you’re an artist?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered with a Spanish accent.
I swooned. We walked to get coffee and spoke for three hours. He texted me a smiley face that night and I was in.

That was the beginning of seven years of the most volatile, obsessive, twisted, and violent relationship imaginable.

“She lies and says she’s in love with him. Can’t find a better man.” — Pearl Jam

It was my 21st birthday and my friends and I were celebrating, but he had other plans. I called him in an alcohol-fueled rage to ask what he was doing. “You’re out drinking with your fucking friends?” I screamed into the phone while walking down Santa Monica Boulevard.

A friend grabbed the phone from me right before I threw it into the street. We were partying at gay bars that night and he didn’t want to go. This was nothing new. My closest friends are gay and their lifestyle made him uncomfortable. I was hurt and furious. When I finally got home, the obsessive, jealous behavior didn’t stop. I texted and called him over and over until I finally cried myself to sleep. This wouldn’t be the last time.

“Now that I’m wakin’ up, I still feel the blow but at least now I know it wasn’t love.” — Lady Gaga

He grew up in Jalisco, Mexico and came to the United States when he was 19 in hopes of fulfilling his dream of becoming a famous artist. He entered on a Visa that had expired around the time I met him. He was trying to make it as an artist to no avail while being paid under the table to install carpet. I soon realized after we started dating that I wasn’t his priority.

He had several female friends who he said were no threat — they were friends from the Temple he belonged, a Judeo Christian faith that follows the Old Testament. He couldn’t eat pork or crustaceans and had to attend services every Saturday. He didn’t celebrate holidays and couldn’t sit next to a woman in Temple. You can imagine what adopting this kind of lifestyle was like for a Latina-Catholic girl who ate pork and celebrated every holiday, but I was happy to take on his life over mine.

“How do I look?” I asked, after choosing a beautiful dress.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“What do you want me to say…you want me to jump up and down?” he said.
“Do you like my hair like this?” I asked.
“It’s better than it was when I met you. Your hair looked like a sponge,” he said.

He rarely showed support or boosted my confidence and I was desperate for him to notice me. I rationalized his lack of regard by telling myself I was the kind of girl who would never get caught up in the romanticism of romance.
I didn’t need PDA, I didn’t want to cuddle, I didn’t want a cheesy partner, and I didn’t need flowers. Yet it stung when the only flower I ever received was a single rose on my 20th birthday, and that I was the one to give the first kiss, and that he never complimented me on my appearance.

“He wants me, but only part of the time. He wants me, if he can keep me in line.” — Til Tuesday

I was transforming and being molded into what he wanted. I would only go shopping for clothes with him and only purchase the things he would say looked “okay.” That was enough for me to want to buy it. I allowed him to take over my wardrobe. I even went as far as letting him cut my long, beautiful curly hair, knowing damn well that curly hair is not easy to cut. It came out exactly what one would expect a non-hairdresser’s cut to look like. The transformation into being who he wanted was complete. But why did I feel that he still didn’t want me, fully?

I isolated myself from my friends and I could feel them slipping away.
“Why don’t they like him?” was a question I wrestled with internally. He was creative and cute, so what was the problem? What I didn’t realize was that they were seeing things that I didn’t. We left social gatherings early and he barely spoke to my closest friends, but these were all minor offenses. Bland, boring, nothing too crazy. I felt neglected and emotionally hurt.
I was alone.

After four years of dating and eight years in the country, he still had not found fame as an artist, just a job that paid him under the table. My parents were no help because they detested him. They felt he was a loser who had no direction, no education, and no means of supporting their daughter. Still, I begged them to let us live in their home together. I didn’t care if they liked him. I was in love and all I wanted was to marry him.

After declaring that he didn’t believe in marriage, he finally agreed to marry me. There was no proposal; only a decision to support each other financially, a contract that would allow us to move forward as a couple. He needed his U.S. residency so we set a date and made an appointment. All of this happened behind my parents’ backs. I gave them no warning.

“So I look in your direction, But you pay me no attention. And you know how much I need you. But you never even see me.” — Coldplay

I was excited that day. I wore a brand new dress from H&M. It was white with a black floral print, form fitting yet tasteful. Even though it was at the courthouse, I wanted, needed, to make it special. My palms were sweaty and my heart was racing. I could not stop hugging my soon-to-be husband as we waited in line to be the next to wed. My two best friends, Denisse and Mo, were witnesses but I could see the hesitation in their eyes. They wanted to be happy for me, but knew there was something wrong with this relationship.
I could sense with every photo I asked them to take of us that they had to swallow their uncertainty.

The small room we were married in was far from the fairy tale a girl normally envisions. The floors were an oatmeal shade of tile, much like a classroom.
I was crying tears of happiness as we stood in front of the judge, who barely cracked a smile and made my special moment seem as routine as washing your hands. For a few moments, as I looked at her, the whole scene felt cold.
I snapped myself out of it and realized that I was finally going to spend the rest of my life with this man, the receiver of my affection, my husband. But his eyes were the driest I had ever seen.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” We were married, by law. I took his last name. There was no wedding ceremony or reception but it was official.
I was his.

“I’m your jazz singer and you’re my cult leader. I love you forever.” — Lana Del Rey

I begged, pleaded, and bawled in hopes my parents would let him move in.
I told them he would help out but they could not see or understand what I saw in him. They could barely be in the same room with him as they saw him as a man with no ambition, no papers, and more importantly, no love for their daughter. And most suspicious of all, he was not in the U.S. legally.

I kept the marriage a secret and then they found out about it on Facebook. They felt so betrayed.

How could you do this to us?
How could you do this to yourself?
Are you doing this out of spite?
What have we ever done to you?

As immigrants, my parents saw people take advantage of others to gain legal status, using tricks and loopholes in the law to get their papers. They were the opposite; hard working people who played by the rules. In their eyes this was a man who — after couch surfing with his sister for years — was being served legal residency on a silver platter.

Finally, my begging and pleading worked. My husband moved in. My parents were devastated but didn’t want to lose contact with me.

“We are not doing this for him. We are doing this for you.”
“A man should be moving my daughter out of my house and providing for her, not moving into our house.”
“You made him the center of your world, acting like he is a gift from God but he could not care less about you.”
“We will never accept your relationship but we do not want to lose you.”
“Please, do not drop out of school.”
“Now the real work begins. You will learn marriage is not a fairy tale.”
“He is a dim light that pales in comparison to you.”

“Sometimes at night alone I wonder, Is there a spell that I am under, Keeping me from seeing the real thing?” — Incubus

We were now tenants in a room in my parents’ house, my room. His things piled up on mine as our separate lives melded together, but I felt we were now, finally, a couple. My room became our world.

We did not spend time with my family because he didn’t like them and they didn’t like him.

They never spoke to each other. We entered and exited the house only to leave and come back. My parents and I were living under the same roof but they had lost a daughter to a man who was forced on them. Their anger resonated when he was away at work.

“Why do you ignore us?
“We gave him a place to stay and this is how you repay us?”
“You come and go as you please without a ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye.’”
“He is your world now. Do you know how much this hurts us?”
“You have forgotten your family for someone who does not care about you.”
“You are the only one who does not see it.”

They were right. I didn’t see it. But what I did see was my warped romantic view of a struggling artist: shy, anti-social, and being held back from his art by having to work. Why couldn’t everyone see the positives in him? I stood up for him, even against my parents. I begged my friends, family and parents to see him in a different light, the way my twisted brain saw him.

“People see no worth in you, oh, but I do.” — The Smiths

When I would leave my “love nest,” I rarely went to an event, no matter how small, without him by my side. He became the source of all of my happiness. When he was near me, any ounce of affection he gave was like an owner throwing a starving dog a bone. I was the one who moved his arm to wrap around me. I was the one who told him how handsome he was. I was the one who wanted to do something special for him. I was clueless that indifference could turn to violence. And then it did.

“Just gonna stand there and watch me burn. But that’s alright because I like the way it hurts. Just gonna stand there and hear me cry. But that’s alright because I love the way you lie…I love the way you lie.” — Rihanna

The sun was setting on the Claremont Loop as we hiked. It was February and we had only been married for one month. The air was crisp with just enough light out, and the trail was being used by many. I was upset about something — I can’t recall what — so I ignored him, deliberately, when he spoke to me. When I cooled off and said I was sorry, he wouldn’t answer so I asked over and over why he was ignoring me. I raised my voice.

He turned around, grabbed my wrist, and dug his nails into my skin. I felt a heat start from my ears that quickly shocked me and spread all over my body. Before that moment, no one in my life had ever inflicted pain on my body; not my parents, not my brother, not anyone. What was this feeling? For 23 years of my life, no one who ever loved me had made me feel this way. Why would my husband do this?

“Shut the fuck up, okay?” he said.
I was silent, and for the first time, looked at him in shock.
“And don’t you fucking make a scene.”

I walked behind him the rest of the way down to the parking lot, shaking. “How could you do that to me?”

“Shut the fuck up and drive,” he said as he dug his nails in again.
I sobbed. How could someone who loves me, hurt me physically?
“Fucking drive. I wanna get out of here,” he commanded.

When we were at home in bed, I could not even turn to look at his face.

“You hate me, don’t you?” were the first words out of his mouth.

He didn’t say he was sorry, just words that made him the center of attention. His mental neglect and abuse had now turned into physical abuse. This wouldn’t be the last time he would hurt me. I cried myself to sleep.

“I could have died right there. He hurt me but it felt like true love.” — Lana del Rey

After that incident, I didn’t think I could ever forgive him for leaving marks on my arm. But I did. Again and again, I did. We would be in public places and with just a hint of the possibility that I might create a scene, give him attitude, or raise my voice, there was now a pattern in place: Shut down, ignore me, grab my arm subtly, and grip. Hard. I accepted this as the norm. My outspokenness turned into silence with one look from him.

He was abusing me right under my parents’ roof. I would go into verbal jealous rages, asking him where he was, not believing he was working.
I would cry and he would shut down. He never explained or reassured his love for me, which I fantasized he would. I would always attempt to mend my jealousy with a hug. It was my way of sweeping whatever issue or paranoia I had under the rug. But the instant I wrapped my arms around him, he would grab me, or push me against the wall or on the bed.

If I cried too loud, he would put his hands on my mouth and tell me to “Shut the fuck up” because “You don’t want your parents to hear, do you?”

And then he nearly killed me.

“The way she tells me I’m her’s and she is mine. Open hand or closed fist would be fine.” — Hozier

It was just another fight, no different from the rest. I hugged him, but this time he threw me onto the bed and covered my mouth while plugging my nose so I couldn’t breathe, all while his body weight was on top of me. I was kicking my legs and became weak. I thought I was done.

I stopped crying because I had no energy left until he finally let go, assumed a fetal position, and drifted off to sleep. And as he slept, my naive, shameless self begged him to talk to me because, even through all of this,
I forgave him. I believed that things would get better.

It was quiet for a few months and then one day he was getting ready to go to work. We had an argument; I can’t remember what it was about. As always, I was determined to fix the problem on the spot. I confronted him and then tried to embrace him.

“Don’t touch me. I’m leaving,” he said.

And then he punched me.

Boom. I was on the floor. He struck me three more times, finished getting ready for work, and left the house for three days. The bruise was so big and so dark that going sleeveless was not an option for several weeks.

I finally cracked. I told my friends about the abuse. Instead of saying, “I told you so,” they pleaded with me to leave. They cried in front of me. They cried with me. Some wanted to beat my husband to a pulp, others threatened to call the police. I used the same lines on everyone: “Don’t worry about me. I love him. He will change.” I believed my words.

Rihanna told Vanity Fair in an interview in the November 2015 issue that she’s unapologetic about her relationship with Chris Brown, who was arrested for assaulting her in 2009. She explained that she went back to that relationship because she thought she could change him.

“A hundred percent,” Rihanna said. “I was very protective of him. I felt that people didn’t understand him.”

I relate to Rihanna’s words. I would come up with reasons to justify why I loved him. Women in these situations think we are the only ones that understand the abuser, and in some sick way, that makes us special. We become so obsessed that we lose ourselves. We become entangled in a kind of thick fog and no one can shine the search lights on to get us out. And even worse, we think we can change the abuser. We can’t.

“You say he get on your fucking nerves. You hope that he get what he deserves, word? Do you even remember what the issue is? You’re just trying to find where the tissue is. You can still be who you wish you is, it ain’t happen yet, and that’s what intuition is. When you hop back in the car, drive back to the crib, run back to their arms. The smoke screens, the chokes and the screams…you ever wonder what it all really means?” — Kanye West

And so I stayed. I stopped hanging out with my friends and no matter how loud their cries for me to get out of this hellish nightmare, they eventually grew tired of hearing my horror stories. Most of my friends retreated completely. Some said they could not stand by and watch. My friend, Mo, a witness at my marriage, remembers what it was like:

“It was like watching a violent movie that you can’t turn off because you lost the remote control. You know you should get up and do something about it but you sit there and watch, hoping it will get to a better part. When it does, you tell yourself it wasn’t all that bad.”

But it did get worse and Mo couldn’t do a thing about it. No one could get through to me. I stood by my man and lost almost every friend except for one: an extremely religious one who would listen to me every night, crying and venting. He wanted to save me but I was hopeless.

“Caroline says as she gets up off the floor, ‘Why is it that you beat me, it isn’t any fun.’” — Lou Reed

The cycle of abuse continued while we lived in our own world, our own little bubble. I would later learn in a domestic violence support group that this is called “The Honeymoon Stage.” This phase is followed by the “Room Game.” This is the phase where my abuser would cover my mouth or push me. On one occasion, he put a pillow over my face until I struggled and cried myself to sleep. This went on and on through the remainder of our marriage.

Everyone has their breaking point. I finally reached mine and decided to end it. Not by leaving, but by breaking my vows. I cheated on him with a friend. It was my way of getting out.

“She says, ‘He never really looks at me. I give him every opportunity. In the room downstairs, he sat and stared. I’ll never make that mistake again!’” — Morrissey

Being intimate with someone else — someone who never hurt me — gave me an escape. It wasn’t love, but rather a series of moments where I did not have to think about my husband-turned-abuser, my literal ball and chain.
I didn’t care if my husband found out. Later, through therapy, I discovered that I cheated because I needed to feel something and, subconsciously, get out of my abusive relationship because I knew I couldn’t get out myself.

“Did you cheat on me? Tell me. You were out til 3 a.m. Tell me!” he screamed.
“No.”

I finally confessed.
“Yes. I cheated on you. Happy?”
“I’m divorcing you,” he said.

He moved his things out and told my mother that I cheated on him. Her reaction was relief. But still, I begged for him to stay.

“I’ll never do it again! Don’t leave me! I love you!” I pleaded.

Any ounce of pride I had was gone. It was over. The divorce would happen. My husband had no money saved up from years of working under the table so my parents paid for the divorce. He had no shame and he never thanked them. In his eyes, he was the victim. He even kept our dog, Santo, a German wire haired pointer that we bought together; a dog I loved so much. My parents would have done anything to get him out of my life, but were still were unaware that he was abusing me.

“You ever love somebody so much you can barely breathe when you’re with ’em. You meet and neither one of you even know what hit ’em. Got that warm fuzzy feeling. Yeah, them chills you used to get ’em. Now you’re getting fucking sick of looking at ’em” — Eminem

The only thing that has helped me come to terms with how I could have stayed in such an abusive relationship is realizing that it’s not my fault. No matter how bad the abuse got, I blamed myself. If only I hadn’t started the fight. If I hadn’t provoked him, he wouldn’t have hit me. If only I can look better, love better, be better.

And I am not alone. According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, on average, one in three women have been victims of some form of physical violence by an intimate partner within their lifetime. One in five women have been victims of severe physical violence by an intimate partner in their lifetime. And on a typical day, there are more than 20,000 phone calls placed to domestic violence hotlines nationwide.

When videos surfaced showing Baltimore Ravens running back Ray Rice punching his then-fiancée and now-wife, Janay Palmer, so hard that he knocked her unconscious, domestic abuse victims stood up for Palmer on Twitter using the hashtag #WhyIStayed to explain why she still agreed to become Rice’s wife after the incident.

According to Craig Malkin, a clinical psychologist at Harvard Medical School, people in abusive relationships rationalize their situation. He said in a Time Magazine article, “People wind up blaming themselves for the abusive behavior of their partners. They convince themselves if they approach the person differently, maybe they won’t be abused.”

He compared the relationship to a gambling addiction: “The person being abused is focused on the positive and waiting for the next positive. There’s a psychological effect like gambling: the moments of tenderness and intimacy are unpredictable, but they are so intense and fulfilling that the victim winds up staying in the hopes that a moment like that will happen again.”

Rihanna said in the 2015 Vanity Fair article, “And if you put up with it, maybe you are agreeing that you [deserve] this, and that’s when I finally had to say, ‘Uh-oh, I was stupid thinking I was built for this.’ Sometimes you just have to walk away.”

“I cannot play myself again. I should just be my own best friend. Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men.” — Amy Winehouse

Looking back, it’s hard for me, and especially hard for others, to understand how I could have tolerated the abuse for so long. Through introspection and therapy, I’ve been able to trace my low self-esteem to my childhood.

I was a wild-maned, brown skinned tomboy with strict Latino-Catholic parents who wouldn’t allow me to participate in eyebrow-grooming until my quinceañera. Embodying a pre-teen Frida with a unibrow was not cool at that age so I was teased daily and mercilessly. I would come home from school every day and cry. I didn’t come to the realization that I shouldn’t allow people to control how I thought or looked until high school.

But then, after meeting this man and becoming so deeply involved, I disregarded my “I don’t give a fuck” attitude and traded it for submission.

But since the divorce, my last name is not the only thing I’ve resurrected from the old me. After putting my education on the back burner during marriage, I am now back in college. I have also rediscovered my love for writing as well as replanting the seeds of friendship with the ones closest to me. I recently told my parents what I went through, which was devastating but long overdue, since they had no idea the abuse happened. Though I shunned my friends throughout my relationship, they welcomed me back with open arms, especially after they researched the reasons why victims of abuse cannot easily leave their abusers.

Now that I have total freedom, I have been getting back into the social scene, which means meeting men. Although I am an outgoing and socially energetic individual, I have seen a change in the way I follow through with anyone who tries to become involved with me, be it friendship or otherwise. My guard is up. I have already encountered men who show subtle signs of not having issues with violence toward women, whether it be a remark they make or simply questioning the act.

“Did you hear about what Johnny Depp allegedly did to his wife? Allegedly hit her?”

“Really? No I hadn’t. But what did she do to make him hit her?”

“Bye.”

I have work to do, mentally and emotionally. I am in the process of going back to therapy to work through my issues and emotional trauma. In my domestic violence support group, the facilitator said there are signs a partner will be physically abusive. She also said abusers seek out their victims, and that we show signs that we can become prey. I am determined to stop this from happening to me again and there are many resources available to help me on my journey. I have a some of the strongest bonds with my family and close friends than I have in years. I will be transferring to a four year university to pursue a degree in journalism and I hope to work in Spanish Language media.

“I said now, I’ll take it, It’s better for you. Somehow we’ll make it ’cause that’s what we do. Something out there where love is your only friend and we are the ones that will make you feel better.” — The Red Hot Chili Peppers

There is life to be lived after the abuser is gone. I am an example of this. It will take time. It will take work. The scars will heal. The important thing is that I was lucky enough to get out when I did to see that I can live my life again, loudly, passionately, and by my own terms.

“So long honey, babe. Where I’m bound, I can’t tell. Goodbye’s too good a word, babe. So I’ll just say, ‘Fare thee well.’” — Bob Dylan

Resources for domestic violence victims:

The Hotline

National Coalition Against Domestic Violence

“Keira Knightley Called ‘Cut’ on this Scene”