Contributing Writer – Diane Anderson
People would ask “why would you stay”? But the question comes from an assumption that abuse starts loudly.
It DOESN’T
My abuser didn’t come out of the gate being abusive. He was charming, loving, he adored me in ways I thought no one else ever could. And for someone like me at that time, a young woman with low self-esteem, no real boundaries, and a deep aching need to be loved, that kind of attention felt like oxygen.
What I didn’t realize then is that abuse can be a grooming process. Not all at once, but slowly. Subtly. A chipping away.
Even early on, something inside me whispered, this isn’t right. And every time I ignored it, I moved a little further away from myself. A little closer to harm. It happens in pieces. A comment here, a criticism there. A moment that makes you question yourself. Then another. Until your world is smaller. Quieter. And you’re no longer sure who you are.
That’s where alcohol came in. It didn’t create the abuse, but it helped me not face it. When me and my husband started going out in my forties, something I had never really done before, it felt like stepping into a different world. A few drinks, a social setting, laughter, new friends, things didn’t feel as heavy there.
And in those rooms, I was able to see him differently, an intoxicating filter. My husband was incredibly intelligent, wickedly funny. He could hold a room, people gravitated towards him. I held on to that version of him, if everyone else saw him as good, how could I be so unhappy.
Alcohol blurred the edges of my reality. It’s softened the confusion. It gave me relief from the constant tension I lived with at home. But it also kept me stuck, brought me into a darkness that was chilling. Until eventually, Diane was barely there. His voice became the loudest one in the room. And then the only one.
He told me I was worthless. That no one would ever want me. I didn’t just hear those words, I breathed them in as if they were my truth. I stopped trusting myself. I stopped recognizing myself. Even the sound of my own voice felt unfamiliar.
And still… I struggled to call it what it was.
Even though I lived in fear. Even though he terrorized me. He ripped doors off hinges. Punched holes in walls. Grabbed me violently. Screamed and berated me inches from my face until I felt like nothing.
And yet…. I still questioned it. Is this abuse? My reality was so distorted. There came a point where I actually questioned which would be worse, staying in that hell or being alone. I weighed those two options as if they were equal. As if the answer wasn’t obvious. That’s how far gone I was.
Alcohol didn’t create that reality, but it helped me survive until it almost killed me. It gave me moments where things didn’t feel so heavy. It blurred the edges enough for me to stay. And all the while, Diane was fading until one day I couldn’t do it anymore.
I had reached a depth of despair that felt endless, like I was sinking into a darkness with no bottom in sight. And in that place something shifted, I heard that familiar voice, mine. I heard myself whisper, “I’m still in here, please don’t let me die.”
I surrendered. I reached for help. And that was the moment everything began to change. The moment I started to rise slowly. I came back to the surface, took my first real breath of fresh air and began my journey of recovery and healing.
Today my life is full. Full of purpose, full of meaning, and full of truth.
I have found my voice again. And I use it now, for myself and for the woman I used to be.
I don’t berate her.
I don’t judge her.
She was a victim.
But I will never be one again.
Part of my healing meant asking myself the hard question. “What was my part?” Not because I caused what happened, but because I needed to understand how I lost myself in it.
I had no boundaries. I had no sense of self or self-worth. I accepted the unacceptable. I handed my power over to someone else and he became my higher power.
But not anymore.
I reclaim that power. I honor and cherish the woman I am today. I share this because I know I’m not the only one.
My purpose is to connect with other women out there hearing that same quiet voice. The one I ignored for so long, the one that says, this isn’t right.
I want them to know, you are not alone. You can climb out of that darkness.
I did.
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