Blinded by Fairytales: A Memoir

“We’re ready for you,” my wedding planner chimed.

My heart hammered in my chest as I made my way through the courtyard of the church. He stood in his black suit, back facing me. I held my breath in excitement as I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, and his eyes quickly scanned me. A casual smile spread across his face. My smile masked my racing thoughts. That wasn’t how I expected him to react. Shouldn’t he be so filled with love that he tears up? Oh well. Stop overthinking. I shook the panic from my head. He didn’t react like I expected him to. But then again, it’s not like I look different. I’m still me… Why would I expect him to act any different? Oh well. I stared at his face as he grabbed my hand. He looks happy. I’m happy too. Why wouldn’t I be?

The sounds of the camera clicking started to fade in the background as we walked hand-in-hand to a small, empty hall near the main chapel.

“So, we’re getting married today. You ready?”

“Yep,” he said nonchalantly. “Look at what socks I chose.” He lifted his pant leg to reveal his hotdog socks.

“Nice,” I said with a reassuring laugh. I placed my hand on his knee.

“You look beautiful.”

A grin spread across my face as my gaze fell to the floor. Before long, it was time for him to leave to go to the main chapel.

We found the bridesmaids and groomsmen. They all soon disappeared behind the big wood doors, leaving just me and my dad.

“Are you ready?” he asked in a low, quiet voice.

I nodded, shakily taking his arm.

“It’s not too late to back out. I can just go in and tell everyone we’re just going to have a party today,” he added calmly.

“No, I want to do this,” I said quietly and deliberately. I took a deep breath, calming my shakes. We turned the corner and entered the chapel.

***

Deep down, I knew something felt off that day despite it being the fairytale wedding of my dreams. I told myself it was because I hated to be the center of attention. While that was true, it was more than that. It wasn’t right. So, why did I go through with it? I truly thought I wanted to.

Imagine it’s 2005. You’re a seven-year-old girl, and your mom turns on a movie. Which movie is it? One of the classics maybe? Is it Beauty and the Beast? Aladdin? Maybe Anastasia? Regardless, they all have something in common - A prince who treats the princess poorly until the princess changes him, and they live a happily ever after.

A few years later, it’s 2008, and Twilight is all the rage. Bella dives into a relationship where she’s willing to change everything about her life for Edward because he’s “the one.”

Even some movies/shows where a relationship is a secondary plot, the couple always seems to be fighting, like Mulan and Li Shang in Mulan II, Sam and Freddie in iCarly, and Mia and Nicholas in The Princess Diaries. The characters end up making the relationship work anyway because they’re “in love” and the conflict is “exciting,” further enforcing the idea that some form of conflict leads to feeling loved and being happy and that not fighting was boring.

Growing up, I lived in a happy household. My siblings and I got along, and my parents were together. However, my parents often fought, even though it wasn’t always obvious. Eventually, they’d give up the fight and let it go by the end of the day. We’d see them fight but never fully talk through it. Mom would remind us that even when they fought, they still loved each other. They would emphasize that relationships were really, really difficult and that you needed to constantly work at them. Naturally, I internalized my parents’ relationship along with the movies and T.V. shows that romanticized conflict, and thus began Book One of my life.

Once upon a time, I went to a small middle/high school. In sixth grade, I had a taste of a romance with a boy I had been crushing on for a while. After that experience combined with all of the romantic media I was absorbing at the time, like Twilight, I started to crave romantic relationships — I mean really crave a relationship. I developed crushes easily and frequently. With each crush, my mind would be consumed with daydreams and questions as to how I should act and what I should do to get that person to like me back. I was obsessed and desperate to be loved, and it was obvious, so obvious that it had become a bad part of my reputation throughout middle and high school. It made it frustratingly impossible for me to date. No one wanted to be with a girl who was desperate for love.

When I found my first relationship, I was almost seventeen, a Junior in high school. We had heard each other’s name, passed each other in the hallways, but he was a Senior. We only started talking when our Spanish classes were randomly combined for a day to learn the merengue. It was love at first sight. We danced together, laughed together. It was destiny, the beginning of the love story I’d always wanted.

The constant butterflies in my stomach had me feeling perpetually nauseous. I was infatuated with the flowers, prom, and his compliments/gestures that were straight out of the movies I grew up on. My infatuation combined with my longing for a high school sweetheart story led me to overlook the red flags, which at first, seemed like very few.

At first it was simple, like ignoring me around his friends. After my last class period of the day, I’d take my time packing up my things, so I would just happen to run into him on the way to the school parking lot. Whether I was passing him in the hall or sitting with him and his friends, sometimes he wouldn’t so much as glance at me. Questions were always firing in my mind: Maybe he just didn’t notice me? Should I ask him to hang out today? Does he want to hang out? Should I match his disinterested attitude? Am I coming across as clingy?

As the relationship continued, more red flags appeared. He’d make ambiguously rude jokes and comments about my food choices, my love of working out, and my lack of knowledge about 70’s rock. If I expressed my dislike for the jokes or comments, it would lead to an argument, so I learned pretty quickly to let go of his comments because it was easier than arguing against him.

The concept of a red flag was nonexistent to me at the time, and because of my desire to be loved and my exposure to romanticized conflict, it was easy to convince myself that everything was normal. Due to my lack of experience, I thought I just didn’t understand relationships, so within the first few months of dating, I went to Barnes & Noble and bought a variety of relationship books — The Five Love Languages, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, and Hold Me Tight. I was always trying to understand. Eventually, the red flags turned into blaring horns, and my mind had to take over. Repression turned into suppression as hurtful words turned into emotional abuse and as other types of abuse began to emerge.

Coercion was just as foreign to me as a red flag. I originally told him I wanted to wait to have sex. With each reminder of that, he’d argue against me. “I want to fuck you because I love you. Why is that a problem?” he’d say. After his frequent and persistent attempts at contact, I gave in. I had a feeling I’d lose him if I didn’t.

It was always easier to give in. I’d rather deal with my own discomfort than with his unhappiness. If we were kissing and I stopped him from going further, he would grow upset or angry. He’d say it was fine and it wasn’t my fault. He’d say he just needed a minute because he was “in pain.” I didn’t want him to be in pain.

One summer evening, I was in his bed staring at the clock on his dark wooden desk: 10:36pm. I let my eyes fall out of focus and listened to the rushing of the bathroom sink. Every shallow breath I took resulted in a shaky exhale. What’s wrong with me? I thought. It’s not like we haven’t had sex before. The sound of rushing water stopped as he shut off the sink. I wiped away my tears, pulled the bed sheet up to my chin and hugged myself, trying to get my breathing under control. The more I slowed down my breath, the worse I’d shake.

“Why do you look like that? Stop shaking like I fucking raped you. I’m your boyfriend.” He shook his head and pulled on his jeans. “Come on, we have to get you home.”

Eventually, he went off to college, but that didn’t stop us from dating. After all, he was only two hours away. I could see him on the weekends, and we could talk every day. Texting was easier for our schedules… and for our arguments.

Me: I seemed upset earlier because it kind of hurt me with what you said about my pants. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I didn’t want to say I was hurt by you saying you hated the pants so much cause i was embarrassed.

Him: im just really tired of that, i think. you getting defensive all the time. you being defensive is really you being aggressive. and your perception of aggression coming from me is often either misunderstood, no matter what, dont fight fire with fire. thats why I’m not calling you back. No sense in being hostile back, that doesn’t solve anything.

Me: I’m sorry… it’s an automatic reaction... I need to stop it…

Him: i have patience for a lot of things but not for personal attacks.

Me: Fine, you can say whatever you want… i won’t get defensive… u can just get it out…

Him: i dont need to say anything, i wouldnt want to say anything to hurt you. especially not to your face. I don’t need to get anything out at you, because seeing you hurt is hard, seeing you hurt by me is the worst thing in the world.

Me: just let me call you and apologize… try to make you laugh…

Him: seena with all due respect leave me alone right now. please.

But even though we were stuck with texting and Skyping, he still managed to make romantic gestures.

“Seena, you got flowers!” My mom’s voice echoed through the house. I ran to the front door, my face breaking into a smile.

“Who are they from?” she teased as if she didn’t know who was sending them.

Heat flooded my cheeks. Attached to the beautiful bouquet of lilies was a heart-shaped card that read: I love you so much! Happy Valentine’s Day. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The butterflies in my stomach quickly sank. I began to regret not choosing a college closer to him, like he had suggested. In just six months, instead of being just two hours away, I’d be eight.

I went to the college of my choice anyway, which meant instead of seeing him once every one to two weeks, I would see him once every few months. But it was worth it because this thing we had was love, right? We had something to work towards, and I loved to pursue my goals. Plus, I needed to prove everyone wrong in thinking it would not last. I needed to prove to myself that fairytales happen, and that this was mine. I’d tell myself that things would get better after we were no longer in a long-distance relationship... surely after we moved in together… and definitely after we got married, but things didn’t get better. The outbursts just got more frequent and unpredictable, like when I was laying on the couch watching T.V. after a long day of work, very sore from my workout prior. He came up to me and squeezed my quads. My muscles screamed, aching with lactic acid. A groan escaped my throat.

“ALL I EVER HEAR FROM YOU IS THAT NOISE! I CAN’T TOUCH YOU EVER,” he yelled. He yanked the blanket off of me and threw it to the floor before stomping to his computer and aggressively pressing the wake button.

Yet, I continued to ignore the bad and live in denial. The outbursts would roll off of me like rain drops on an umbrella. I’d delete any malicious, insulting texts he sent me because if they weren’t there, then they never happened – clean slate. I’d say I was sorry and blame myself just to keep the peace, even when I knew something wasn’t my fault. I’d go out of my way every day to do him favors, like doing his share of the chores, making elaborate dinners and desserts, even sexual favors all because I thought it would push off his next blow-up for a while, but even the favors backfired because I wasn’t “enthusiastic” enough when doing them or I was just “trying too hard.”

When I was close to breaking down, I’d seek reassurance. My internet search history was filled with things like “how to know if he’s the one” and “how to know if it’s true love.” I’d re-watch episodes from shows that put arguments in a fun-loving light, like Jess and Nick in New Girl or Rachel and Ross in Friends. I’d re-watch How I Met Your Mother to remind me that Lily left Marshall because of doubts and wanting to explore and regretted it, just as I told myself I would if I left. When shows and Google didn’t reassure me or if I needed to vent, I’d call my best friend, mother, or one of my sisters. Subconsciously, I knew that I had to rotate which person I vented to about his actions and words because if I only vented to one, they would think my relationship was broken. I knew it wasn’t though. They just wouldn’t understand him like I did.

They encouraged me to call him out when he was being disrespectful.  Little did they know, the last time I called him out, we were on the highway. He pulled over onto the shoulder and yelled at me to get out and take an Uber.

As the outbursts and name-calling piled on top of each other, I’d get close to hitting my breaking point. A few times, I started packing up my bag, but before I could, he’d pull me back with puppy dog eyes and tell me, “I love you. I’m sorry. I don’t deserve you. I promise I’ll do better. You’re an angel. You’re making me a better person,” followed by days of treating me like a princess. He’d bring me flowers and breakfast in bed with my morning tea exactly how I like it. He’d shower me with love and plenty of hugs and kisses. We’d walk to the farmer’s market, go to the park so he could fish and I could read; we’d go to nice dinners then get drunk at a bar and snack on fried pickles. Hope would bubble up inside me during the “sunny days.” I would start to think that maybe he finally understood what he was doing to me, but then, something would happen again.

I was constantly on-edge. He’s quiet today. What did I do wrong? Did I thank him enough today? Am I giving him enough attention? Too much? When was the last time I pleasured him? Did I leave out the pan I used to cook my eggs this morning? He said he’d do the chores this week, but I should probably just do them anyway to be safe. He made me an amazing dinner last night – what should I do for him so we’re even?

No matter what I did to try to keep him happy, to try to keep us in a good place, his blow-ups would come, even if they weren’t triggered by me.

I heard him yell “OUCH” and turned my head just in time to see my cat hit the wall and scurry off. I felt as if the breath had been knocked out of me, but I remained calm. He was already angry. I didn’t want to push him.

“What happened?” I asked plainly. The less emotion I showed the quicker he’d recover.

“He fucking bit me!”

I just kept reassuring myself that we’d get through it and things would be sunny again soon. I’d continue to google for hours to try to find articles that reassured me that this level of conflict in relationships was normal, always falling back on the phrase “marriage is really hard.” I eventually started to despise that phrase, as I’d also ask myself: is it supposed to be this hard? My sisters’ relationships didn’t seem that hard. I had never heard them complain about having to walk on eggshells. I had never heard about their partners throwing tantrums, and they certainly never had to come up with an explanation as to why their partners were acting pissed off on a family vacation. Yet even with all these obvious differences, the only difference I fixated on was not the fact that my sister’s partner didn’t throw her cat; it was the fact that she could be herself without judgement.

I wished that my partner would laugh along with my quirks instead of making fun of them. I was tired of turning off the show I was watching upon hearing his keys rattle outside of the door because I knew he hated it. I was tired of being criticized every time I ordered a vegetarian meal or woke up early for a workout. I was tired of his negative reactions to me mentioning I wanted a tattoo or wanted to dye my hair a color other than blonde. I was tired of structuring my day around which version of him I’d get.

The morning after a fight we had late into the night, I woke up next to the man I had called my partner for so long. My stomach sank, and I felt as if I had gravel in my throat as I tiptoed out of the room. I had tried to leave in the past but was pulled back down by apologies and empty promises, but this time was different. It was the moment I let myself realize that I would never truly be able to be myself with him. That morning, when I wasn’t on the phone seeking consolation from my family, I sat in silence until he woke up.

When he did hours later, I shakily told him that while I loved him more than anything, the marriage wasn’t working. He clenched his fists, his eyes bugged out, he banged his fist on the countertop and shouted at me until he eventually walked out the door.

After that, I laid on the floor of the apartment for quite some time. The world around me seemed to freeze. The silence was ringing in my ears as I replayed what happened over and over. For weeks, my chest felt like it was holding a ten-pound weight. My stomach felt like it would reject anything I attempted to give it. I was devastated. I missed him. I yearned for him. Part of me wanted to go back, but there was a much larger part of me that didn’t want to. I knew it was easier to get through this pain than endure a lifetime with him acting like someone I wasn’t. Despite the weight, I felt free. But why did I miss him then? It didn’t make sense to me, so of course, I copied and pasted that question into the Google search bar. One answer led to more questions, and eventually, I asked Google, “was my relationship abusive?” I read other people’s experiences and related to them. Things started to make more sense as I stumbled across the term “trauma bond.”

A trauma bond is the connection an abused person feels towards their abuser perpetuated by cycle of rewards and punishments. This was the term I came to know after my realization that I had been in an abusive relationship. Being yelled at in your face isn’t normal. Being spat on, even just once, is not normal. Dreading sex is not normal. Being scared of your partner is not normal.

I went through past texts I sent during the relationship venting to my mom, my sister, and my best friend. I went back through the texts with him that I didn’t delete. I began to see the relationship for what it was. It wasn’t a fairytale. The rose-colored glasses came off, and I was in the dark for a while. As I sifted through the good and the bad memories, part of me wondered if the abuse was warranted at times. I thought back to conversations I wished I’d handled better and mistakes I made, and I wondered if his behavior was my fault. I felt empathetic for his internal struggles that caused him to lash out at me in the first place. Needing help to process, I found a therapist, read books, and wrote in workbooks. Over time, I began to understand that I was not responsible for other people’s actions or feelings – only my own. The best piece of advice I received was from a close family friend who understood what I was going through. She said to take one thing at a time, even if it was just a shower or a meal. She said to not think about what a future without him would look like, just to build it one day at a time. Her words repeating in my head, I worked through my bouts of guilt, sadness, and anger, and eventually, I was on the road to peace.

Things weren’t so dark anymore. Though there were still low points as suppressed memories came back, the rest of the time, I was euphoric. The colors in the world literally looked brighter and more vivid. The sky was a deep, beautiful blue; the grass was a vibrant green, and I found myself wondering if the sun above my head was really the same sun that had been shining on me my whole life. I could do and be anything I wanted to.

Basking in my newfound freedom and independence, I picked up and moved to a new city to start over. I’d hoped my ex-husband would get the help he needed as I began to write Book Two of my life, where I got to be the main character with no one else around to change that. I wanted to meet as many new people as I could – friends and casual lovers. I wanted to write. I wanted to try new things, like krav maga, ballet, and more. I wanted to let myself nerd-out on DC Comics. I felt like I had control again, over my life and my body.

As I met new people, I found that my experience wasn’t uncommon. Many of them have had similar experiences, most undoubtedly caused by society’s expectations and portrayals on how love should look. After a period of avoiding relationships, I ended up falling in love with someone who had been through an experience similar to mine. It’s not a fairytale. It’s not the love that is portrayed in the media. It’s better. It’s fun. It’s peaceful. It’s not that hard. I would even call it easy.

DISCLAIMER:

This article is memoir. It reflects the author’s recollections of experiences over time. It is not intended to harm. It is intended to reach others who find themselves in similar situations.