, 17 tweets, 3 min read
I’m a few days late, but I want to tell my story for #WorldMentalHealthDay. I really struggled with whether I would share this. I’m still recovering &, to some extent, still fear retribution.

That being said, I feel I have a responsibility as someone with a platform to speak up.
When I was in college, I dated someone I thought was perfect. Everyone liked him. He was smart, kind, genuine. I hit the jackpot, I thought.

Just 1 month in, he started to change. In public, he was wonderful. In private, he was a different person.
As our relationship progressed, he got worse. He checked my phone for text messages; forbade me from seeing my friends; yelled at me for hours into the night.

Then, the death threats came.
I wish I’d known the warning signs. I wish I’d known what a “healthy” relationship looked like. What abuse was.
As the threats got worse (Can death threats get worse? Yes, they can) I feared, not just for me, but for my friends and my family. I barricaded my door when I got home from school. I would plead with him, sobbing, to forgive me.

Forgive me for what? I should’ve asked.
One night I thought I was having a heart attack. I went to the ER in a full panic, feeling the arrhythmias in my chest.

Turns out, it was my first anxiety attack.

I remember looking at the doctor, pleading with my eyes to let me stay, so I didn’t have to go back to him.
About 8 months into our relationship, I started seeing a therapist. I remember the creak of the chair as I filled out the initial form in the waiting room. The pit in my chest. The hopelessness.
Ironically, I started seeing a therapist because he suggested it.

I was bad, shameful. I needed help to fix me, I told my therapist through tears.
Over the next month, I learned what anxiety was. I learned about emotional abuse. I learned about gaslighting and fear tactics and control.
The threats continued to get worse. I wasn’t getting “better,” in his mind. The neighbors heard him yelling death threats and slamming something, and called the police.

After his episode, I comforted him. I told him it was my fault.
My therapist told me she was afraid for my life.

With her help, I finally - FINALLY - was able to act.

I broke up with him.
I changed my number. Stayed with family. Changed my passwords on all my devices. Went to new coffee shops and restaurants.

Over the next few months, I started to feel safe again. But the damage was so deep. So insidious.
I struggle with major anxiety attacks and PTSD. I’m still scared I’ll see him. I take anxiety meds daily. I see a therapist at least once a week. I have night terrors, and triggers that cripple me.
It’s taken me years to learn that It’s Not My Fault. I’m still learning, still trying to heal. But I sure as hell couldn’t do this alone.

I need therapy. I need medicine. I need support and help.
I hope that by sharing my story I can help other young women in abusive relationships. I hope I can show how important therapy is. How invaluable healthy relationships are. How important it is to take care of yourself. To love yourself.
beyond heartbroken by the stories folks are sharing about their own abuse. stories like mine are all too common.

1/4 women & 1/9 men experience domestic violence in the US.

women between ages 18-24 are most commonly abused.
if you find yourself in physical or emotional distress by a partner, please seek help. YOU’RE NOT ALONE.

many universities have mental health professionals on campus.

available via phone: National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 (SAFE) or 1-800-787-3224 (TTY).
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