my GF was severely abusive in every meaning of the word. She started with simple emotional manipulation. She quickly, whether she knew it or not, would use my every weakness. She knew I was lonely and would call me and be needy, knowing I would want to attend to her every need. She got me to take her on thousand dollar shopping trips, and one time even slashed her own tire so I would come to the rescue. Once she knew she had me in her control, it was game over. From this point going forward, I was with her for better or worse.

The manipulation escalated quickly to verbal abuse and frequent screaming bouts about my minor faults and inadequacies. Small screw-ups were cause for twenty minute yelling sessions about how I was worthless and barely able to walk upright, let alone satisfy her as a girlfriend. When I thought it couldn't get worse, it did.

Less than six weeks into the relationship, the physical abuse began. my GF would throw things, slap, and push me forward. Sometimes I tried to defend myself, sometimes I just let it happen. The ratio of defense vs turtling quickly became lopsided as I just let each hit land as it would.

The worst abuse of all came when she would back me into a corner and let loose with a flurry of blows. All the while, as she was hitting me, she would scream and swear about my screw-ups. I was terrified and would simply wait for it to end. After each bout, she would sob uncontrollably about how much she loved and cared for me. How she didn't want to hurt me anymore. How this would be the last time and she would never strike me again. Every time, I believed her. I never left because I felt that even the blows were shows of love.

In my bizarre mind, even time spent in a ball in the corner was time I was being loved. I wasn't close with my workmates and my mother spent three or four weeks of a month out of town. My time with my GF was all I had in my column. The only other thing I cared at all about was my precious modified compact car.

I hid the bruises well, wearing long sleeve shirts in all weather conditions. Thankfully my work afforded me the option of always wearing these. I also learned from a gay coworker about buying makeup from the local Macys when the strikes landed on my face. Only two people in my life knew of the abuse. I feel that many people had ideas, some may have even put the pieces together, but none ever mentioned it.

A common question I get now is why I put up with this. Why not leave? Why not hit back? Why not make a police statement? I don't know, I really don't. Its impossible to convey the level of neediness and attachment I felt. As fucked as the relationship was, it did fit neatly in my need to feel wanted.

I remained hopelessly in love with my GF, however. However, it all came to a head one day, at the local international airport. my GF was leaving for a year's studying overseas, and I had volunteered to drive her to the airport. She had lead me on to think that we were still madly together, and our everlasting love would hold strong, even over two continents and an ocean. I was sadly mistaken. Less than twenty yards from the security checkpoint, I told her I loved her repeatedly. By the end, I was even begging, sounding pathetic. my GF turned around just before the magnetometer, looked me in the eyes and stated flatly that she did not love me, and wasn't sure she ever had. She spun and proceeded through the x-ray machine, and we didn't speak for another year or more.

I was devastated, beyond crushed. On the way home, I made a half hearted attempt at suicide, trying to drive off a bridge. I ended up just letting my precious car slide into a guardrail, tearing off a side skirt. I sat on the shoulder for nearly twenty minutes, listening only to the drumming of the rain on the modified fiberglass roof. Eventually I put the pieces of shattered composite into a garbage bag in the trunk and drove home, where I consumed a third of a bottle of expensive scotch. I didn't care if I lived or died at that point.

The next morning, while fighting off among the worst headaches in my life, I lifted a post it note off my desk that had a phone number for a powerful member of the political community. I called her and took her up on an offer to write for her. I packed my suits and three days worth of clothes into a small bag, borrowed an old Mac laptop, and left my suburban house and didn't look back.