How Far We Go To Hear “I Love You”

I wish people could understand the devastation of domestic abuse

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All I knew about the patient was that she was a young woman who had attempted suicide shortly after ending her relationship. “There’s probably some personality pathology there,” said the ICU physician who called our psychiatry consult team for help.

But the story was far more complex than the “crazy ex-girlfriend” label this poor girl nearly received. After months of abuse, she’d left her partner. The emotional impact nearly killed her.

After she was extubated, she told me about the night he strangled her, sparing no detail. “I wish he’d killed me,” she sobbed. “Does that make me crazy?” No, I thought defensively, because I’ve had the same thought. If it makes you crazy, it certainly makes me crazy. A crazy psychiatrist doesn’t seem very credible.

Haltingly, she whimpered, “I love so deeply. I just want someone to love me the way I’m willing to love.”

I saw too much of myself in her.

No one chooses to be in an abusive relationship. Though I was shocked the first time he hit me, I didn’t conceptualize it as abuse. I thought I deserved it. If I were enough, he wouldn’t have hit me.

I replayed my patient’s words over and over. She’d done everything she could to be enough for him in vain. That piece of the story weighed most heavily on me.

Love in my life feels largely conditional. Be it with family, friends, or lovers, my relationships often feel transactional, predicated on what I can do, what I can be for the other person.

I’m too used to transactional relationships, desperately trying to prove my worth and settling for scraps of affection where I can find them. With each act of devotion is me silently begging, “Can’t you understand me, love me, even a little?”

Within my family, I carefully tailor my words, feelings, even my facial expressions, torn between my need for the affection that comes with approval and my desire to speak my mind. I’d hoped for emotional release with the men in my life. But with each relationship, I found myself investing more, doing more — just to hear the words, “I love you,” no matter how hollow I subconsciously knew them to be.

My relationship with my abuser was yet another transaction — though I’m unsure what I gained from it.

I thought infidelity happened if one person felt neglected. I could perhaps understand mistakenly seeking the attention you wanted elsewhere if you weren’t getting it from the person who meant most to you. I was wrong — I remained a tidy size 2, laughed at his unfunny jokes, cooked and cleaned incessantly, catered to his physical and emotional needs before my own. I did everything “a good woman” was supposed to do. I still got hit. He still strayed.

“Why did you insert yourself into my life, if you were just going to do this?”

He rolled his eyes. “Our class had limited options,” he scoffed. “Abby’s not that good-looking, Leslie’s cute and athletic, but definitely went to med school to find a relationship, and Lisa’s insane. You were the best choice.”

The one person whom I believed loved me purely for me was confirming my worst insecurities: that I was a practical choice, not a desirable choice.

He continued. “You’re a great study partner, you buy me great presents, you anticipate all my needs like no one else. You’ll be a good mom to our kids, plus you’re responsible and my family likes you.”

“Those aren’t reasons to be with me. Those are reasons I benefit you.”

I couldn’t understand his need to be so cruel. His fleshy lips curved into a sneer, as though he enjoyed my distress.

“Maybe a reliable good girl is what I need. I guess I’ll just get used to my sexuality being dead.”

His face seemed nonchalant. But his eyes had that terrifying stony look, cold hatred for me reflected in them. I couldn’t see the man I once loved, no matter how frantically I searched for him in their depths.

I wanted him to tell me a life with me was worth the effort.

“I don’t want to say something I don’t mean!” he snapped. “I didn’t feel like you were worth it!”

And he stormed out, leaving me in shock.

That Valentine’s Day, he took me out for lunch arranged at the last minute, a pity date ending in selfish, unsatisfying sex, more for him than for me. Another chore to endure. Because all I could think about was the fact that my happiness didn’t matter.

I closed my eyes, pretending he was someone else as he entered me. Why am I not worth loving?

I left.

Many women don’t leave alive. I should feel fortunate that I escaped with my life, I’m often told.

There is so much shame that accompanies domestic abuse. As a physician, I should have known better.

“You let him abuse you,” my mother said. She couldn’t possibly have made me feel worse than I already did. I was already reliving the slaps, his rages, the night I thought he’d kill me. And when I wasn’t consciously suppressing the memories during the day, they were slipping through my defenses at night, a Dali-esque kaleidoscope of horrific images.

I publicly remade myself into “the woman who escaped,” channeling my pain into my work — passion borne from unimaginable grief. I transformed victimhood into experience, slowly becoming the psychiatrist who specializes in trauma- and stressor-related disorders. I put on a brave face for my patients, particularly those who left relationships like mine, holding their hands as they cried. I let them fall apart with me, reassuring them, “You’re safe. You’re free. You’re valued.”

Everything I do is a distraction from how deeply I’m hurting.

I worry that appearing weak would let down the patients who need me. I fear public ridicule for my vulnerability. I feel a daily pressure to appear liberated, carefree, to meet a new impossible standard: a good feminist who needs no one, embraces the freedom of childlessness, laughs at the banality of Valentine’s roses.

But that would be a lie. I’m tired of hiding behind a public persona of strength. I’m tired of surviving things. I want the roses so very badly. I want my own little family. I think I’d have been a good mother.

I don’t live; I exist. If I could fix whatever is broken in me, whatever makes me unlovable, I would.

Men have tried to possess me. They’ve been my friends and confidantes. They’ve been my lovers and they’ve done things to me that I didn’t want. They’ve told me I deserve happiness, they’ve told me I’m crazy. They’ve laughed with me, they’ve lied to me. They’ve been supportive, and they’ve disappeared from my life with no explanation.

There has been good and bad — and through it all, not one has tried to love me.

My patient asked if things were better for me. I evaded the question. No. He is gone, but the fear and sadness never left. I’m not worth it. He broke me. And I wish I had someone who would understand, who feels safe. I just want someone who feels like home, where I can finally fall apart.

She showed me her artwork shortly before I discharged her from the hospital. “You’re so talented!” I exclaimed. Her artwork was bold, passionate, in contrast to her apologetic, soft-spoken stance.

“You have a whole life ahead of you. I’m honestly excited for you,” I reassured her, sending her out, hopefully to the better future that she deserves. But I don’t believe those reassurances for myself.

I wish this story had a better ending. Whenever I tell it, people encourage me to end it on a hopeful note, but I have no hope. I just don’t have the same level of impulsivity that almost killed my patient after leaving abuse, otherwise, I could easily have ended up in her place.

People ask me what I want, and I always avoid the question, too embarrassed to answer honestly.

I’d like coffee, a single rose. Genuine, unpretentious warmth, the touch of a hand on mine, and the question, “How are you?” when I know what is actually being said is, “I wanted to make you smile, and are you happy? Because your happiness is worth it to me.”

Is that truly too much to want?