(Domestic Violence Awareness Month)

Pop culture keeps teaching the same dangerous fairy tale: that a man’s control is devotion, that a woman’s endurance is proof of love. We keep dressing harm in language that sounds noble—passion, chemistry, fate—while the real thing happens quietly, in kitchens and bedrooms, unseen.

Abuse isn’t cinematic. It doesn’t play to music or end in clarity. It’s a slow erosion of certainty, a daily audit of your own sanity.

So here’s my offering for Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Not a ribbon. A question.

Am I the asshole?

The Beginning

When I met Scott, I mistook intensity for intimacy. He wanted me woven fully into his life—my friends, my patterns, my independence tucked neatly away. I thought surrender was the highest form of love.

When I found naked photos of another woman on his phone, I forgave. When other women lingered too long in his orbit and he called it harmless, I told myself jealousy was weakness.

Am I the asshole for not laughing it off? For wanting to feel safe in my own relationship?

The Intervention That Wasn’t

When his drinking worsened—when he disappeared for days, came home shaking and furious—I reached for help. I called his parents, invited them into our home. I thought, naïvely, that love would rally to save him.

They arrived like emissaries of denial, clutching casserole dishes and quiet judgment. He sat slumped on the couch, eyes glassy, words slurring into half-truths. I begged them to see him clearly, to help me pull him back.

Nancy—his mother—smiled her brittle social smile, the one that said this was all terribly inconvenient. “He’s fine,” she said. “You’re making a scene.”

Her husband nodded, jaw set. “He’s been through enough. You’re only making it worse.”

I remember the sting of that moment—the way the room tilted, the air thickened. How suddenly I was the crisis, not the person trying to end one.

Am I the asshole for wasting their time? For pleading for help while they decided I was the abuser?

The Blame

He tells me I’m the reason he drinks, the reason he rages, the reason he fails.

If I were softer, he’d be sober.

If I were easier, he’d be kind.

Every accusation seeps in until my own voice sounds like his. I start apologizing for things I didn’t do, for things no one could fix.

Am I the asshole for wanting calm? For daring to say this isn’t love?

The Nights That Stayed

There are nights my body remembers more clearly than my mind:

His hands closing around my throat.

The water pressing over my face.

The sound of metal clicking in the dark.

He insists none of it happened. That I invent stories. That I’m hysterical.

Maybe I am. Maybe trauma really is just bad storytelling by women who can’t let go.

Am I the asshole for remembering what he insists I imagined? For trusting the tremor in my own pulse?

The Architecture of Isolation

Movies show women leaving. But abusers are architects. They wall off exits—friends, family, finances—brick by brick, until escape looks like betrayal and staying looks like virtue.

I am forty-three. A doctor. A business owner. To the world, I look solid. But strength doesn’t protect you from confusion. It only teaches you to cry efficiently—to break in private, rebuild by morning, and call it resilience.

So, tell me: am I the asshole?

Because if the answer is yes, maybe this really is what love looks like when a man “means well.”

But if the answer is no—if this is what so many women quietly survive—then awareness has to mean more than purple ribbons and hashtags.

It has to mean listening when someone says, “He’s hurting me.”

It has to mean believing her, even when he smiles better.

It has to mean refusing to romanticize domination.

Author’s Note

Names have been changed for protection.

This essay is written in recognition of Domestic Violence Awareness Month, in solidarity with survivors who still second-guess their own stories.

If you or someone you know is in danger, call or text the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233, or visit thehotline.org for confidential support.