Learning What Love Isn't

“ARE YOU ACTUALLY STUPID?” he screamed in a demeaning tone, physically grabbing the steering wheel out of my hands.

“How many times have you been to my town, and you still don’t know where to go? God,” he sighed.

He leaned his hands back behind his head, mine still shaking from the way my car had just lost control.

But it wasn’t just my car that had gone off its course.

If you had asked me then what I thought love meant, I would’ve said it was about holding on — sticking around no matter how much it hurt, being there for someone even in the hardest of times. But as I found myself begging for my own boyfriend’s forgiveness, constantly apologizing for the things I hadn’t done — I wondered how I even got to this place. How did my parents’ little girl — the one that was so tough and so sure of herself — become someone so afraid that she felt scared to be with the person she “loved?” But this wasn’t love at all — this was a fight for power, a fight for control, and a fight that I was simply never meant to win.

My ex-boyfriend, Anthony, was the kind of person that believed others should feel valuable for even getting the chance to be near him — like his presence was simply a gift in itself. I remember meeting him three summers ago at the beach, his overwhelming confidence and witty personality completely consuming the people around him. After conversing for hours on end, I remember thinking how considerate it was that he had not picked up his phone once — making me feel like I deserved his undivided attention, to what I can now recognize as his calculated charm. I noticed his phone buzzing multiple times, the screen lighting up with what looked like the same name over and over. He obnoxiously sighed, flipping his phone facedown quickly before silencing it completely. He didn’t mention he had a girlfriend back at home until nearly four hours in — and even then, he looked over at his friends complaining, “Bro, she’s calling me again, what the hell.” I remember hesitating with uncertainty, as he finally answered on the last ring of the eleventh phone call. Maybe he wouldn't be acting like this if he had a girlfriend who was calm and rational, I thought naively.

I could hear her voice, piercing through from the other end of the phone, screaming about a video she had just received of him talking to another girl — the other girl being me. He rolled his eyes loudly, barely flinching and brushing the situation off like this sort of thing happened all the time. At the time, I felt like there was something rather intriguing about this — about the way he carried himself, like he was completely unapologetic — a trait that I would later become very accustomed to. The strangest part was that she was basically a carbon copy of me. It was almost as if I wasn’t the exception — just the next version.

For a long while after we had cut contact following that day on the beach, I managed to convince myself that I was fine — that somebody like him wasn’t worth pining over or even worth a second thought at all. But the truth is, I knew he never forgot about me. Over the course of that year, I caught him stalking me on every social media platform, showing up to the places he knew I would be, and even driving around my town — which he didn’t live in — to get my attention. I never viewed these acts as creepy or alarming, and somehow, his growing obsession made me feel appreciated and chosen for the first time in my life.

When he finally reached out to me about thirteen months later, he revealed the many things he knew about me — things I wasn’t even sure I knew about myself. This was the love and attention I had always craved — the qualities and acts that all of my friends had convincingly claimed I “deserved.” When we officially started dating, I felt like I had finally done something right, that every moment from the beach until now had led to this — that everything had rightfully fallen into place. He told me repeatedly that “not breaking up with his girlfriend after that day was one of his biggest regrets — that he thought about me every day for the rest of their relationship.” Although I knew deep down how completely twisted this sounded, I cherished these words. A part of me told myself that I was special — that leaving a mark on someone like that had to have meant something.

I thought I loved the intensity of our relationship — the way that he always cared so much about where I was and what I was doing. But intensity can often be used as a disguise. The same care and attention that I had always appreciated quickly turned into control and possessiveness. It wasn’t long before I noticed a constant pattern of questioning — questioning the people I was talking to, how many guys were in the room I was in, and what I was wearing — quite literally everywhere. His condescending comments began with what seemed like harmless statements — things like, “That shirt is a little much, don’t you think?” or “I saw the video you posted of yourself earlier — I really don’t like how many views it has.” But almost no time had passed before those comments became ultimatums. He repeatedly told me that if I didn’t stop posting photos of myself on social media and start changing the way I acted and dressed — he simply “wouldn’t be able to keep doing this” — a sentence that kept me awake almost every night. I started to feel like our relationship was just one big test, a test that I knew one day I would no longer be able to pass.

Eventually, his demands weren’t just emotional — they became physical, exhausting, and ultimately all-consuming. About eight months into our relationship, I couldn’t remember the last weekend I had slept through the night without an angry, violent phone call scaring me awake at around 2 a.m., demanding I pick him up from some party thirty-five minutes away. If I even attempted to explain that I was too tired, or drained, or even that my sister had taken the car that night, I could feel his rage protruding from the other end of the phone. I was relentlessly accused of not loving him, not being enough, and eventually, of simply not deserving to be in our relationship at all. I began to question everything — not just our relationship, but myself and the person I had tried so hard not to become. I was completely numb to the way that I had been treated by him — and for the time being, I was okay with that. For months on end, I was harassed in the middle of events, his harsh words and threats making me feel obligated to pack up my things as fast as possible and speed to his house.

His messages most often read, “I really don’t care where you are right now. If you really loved me, you’d already be here.”

To him, it didn’t matter if I was in the middle of a funeral or even my own birthday dinner — if I wasn’t there for him right when he needed me, there were going to be serious consequences. My best friend started to joke that I had completely lost my personality since becoming involved with him — a joke that didn’t feel so funny once I realized how true it had become. Before I knew it, I had not a single friend left — and although it was difficult to understand at the time, I never truly blamed them.

He succeeded in dulling all of the parts of me that I used to love about myself, and even in making sure that my emotions could never overpower his. When I officially decided that I was going to attend Penn State in the fall — the school I had been dreaming of going to — he was the first person I called, eagerly awaiting his answer on the car ride home.

“Guess what!” I shouted through the phone.

“What?” he muttered in a low and depressing tone. I could tell that something was off — but for once, I was determined not to let him steal this moment from me, like he had every time before.

“I’m going to Penn State!” I proudly announced. I waited for his response in complete silence for what felt like three minutes straight. Tightly crossing my fingers, I hoped that for once, he could find it in him to be just a little happy for me.

He knew how long I had been anxiously anticipating this moment — which made the words that followed even more hurtful than I ever thought possible.

“It’s not really the time right now,” he said. I immediately forgot the reason I called. As usual, the conversation was back to being all about him.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I forgot to ask about your wrestling tournament.”

“We lost, and honestly, I really don’t need to go online right now and see everyone posting for your commitment.” I could feel him rolling his eyes through the phone, just like I always could.

“Oh..” I started.

“Yeah,” he said, “so if you could just hold off on telling people, that’d be great.”

Before I could even think about getting my next word out, the sound of him hanging up pierced my silence completely. My parents looked back at me, smiling. I could tell they were patiently waiting to ask me what his response was like.

“He’s so excited for me,” I smiled. At this point, lying to the world about him was like second nature to me — the only thing I had been good at since meeting him.

His jealousy and control over my life turned me into the person I had always feared being. I became someone who was never there for the people around me, especially when they needed me most. I went from being a timely and reliable person to someone who blew off plans with my friends so often it became routine and expected. But the hardest part wasn’t even the constant feeling of disappointment, isolation, or the emotional burden of it all — it was having to force myself to defend his actions over and over again — to everyone.

I am still haunted by the feeling of being shaken awake by my mother, the worry in her voice as she asked why our mailbox had been smashed to the ground overnight. The truth was that I hadn’t answered him for a few hours following our first breakup, after explaining that I needed some time to myself. That was all it took. Space was never allowed — at least not for me. He could go days without speaking to me, and I was expected to wait patiently on the other end of the phone. But if I dared to go silent, even for a short period of time, I knew immediately that I had to brace myself for the worst possible outburst. Sometimes these outbursts came in the form of complete silence for unfathomable lengths of time, sometimes through slamming car doors or shoving me out of the way while I was speaking, and sometimes through dramatic threats that left me paralyzed with fear. This was never love — it was just a sorry excuse for it, masked by manipulation and control.

“I love you” was never a phrase that felt comforting to me. Hearing those words was almost like an indicator that something was wrong — that I should be worried that he did something cruel he hadn’t admitted to me yet— or even that he was going to hurt himself — something that he had threatened many times before. He never showed up for me when it mattered — not once — not even to the milestones he knew I cared so deeply about, like my graduation or even the months on end I spent in the hospital. I continued to be there for him through everything, because to me, that’s what love was. Every occasion that he showed up to empty handed, became just another pathetic lie that I needed to formulate on my car ride home — all so that when my family and friends asked, I could say we had “the most amazing night.” But a simple, unexpected “I love you,” something I truly didn’t get to hear often, was just what he knew I needed to forget about the disappointment I felt in the moment— and we both knew that that was the truth.

Eventually, I started meeting with a therapist weekly, who told me that my overwhelming emotion should not be regarded as a weakness — that even the healthiest of relationships needed conflict in order to grow. I knew she said this to make me feel just a little less insane about my situation. I knew this because I could always feel her judgmental eyes beating down on me as I broke down for what felt like the millionth time. A big part of me also knew that anyone saying this didn’t know the first thing about my relationship. Nothing about him was defendable — not the way he belittled me so much that I could barely leave the house without makeup, or the way he refused to be seen in public with me out of pure embarrassment and shame. Not even the thought that hovered in the back of his mind that if I wasn’t by his side, he could maybe find someone better. And especially not the way that he made sure I believed I was so insanely lucky to have him — because “nobody would ever love me like this again.” And thank God he was right about one thing.

I remember thinking at the time that if this was what love was, I never wanted to be in love ever again. But I was lucky enough to meet someone who was able to completely redefine that word for me. I have now been shown a different kind of love — not one that feels like a constant fight or battle, but one that feels like home. Where my old cycle thrived on power and manipulation, my new one thrives on validation, true commitment, and a constant effort of ensuring that I am conscious of my self-worth. For the first time ever, the phrase “I love you” doesn’t have to feel like a warning, but a promise. He shows up for me one hundred percent of the time, not just in moments of ease or convenience, but when it truly matters most. Whether I’m greeted with flowers on a minor occasion I’d never expect anyone to remember, or simply met with a comforting hug after an emotionally draining day — I am grateful to say that I have finally found dependability and sincerity, something that is genuinely worth cherishing.

I have found someone who will never be ashamed of me — a person who makes me feel like I deserve every gift and every gesture, no matter how big or small. Someone who remembers even the smallest of details — who knew my surgery date by heart and made sure I knew that somebody would be waiting for me when I woke up. Someone who sets alarms on his own phone just to remind me to take my medicine — who waited outside my house at midnight, just to be there when my plane landed after a short but painfully distant vacation. A person who is always considerate of my time — never demanding, never keeping score. Someone who never makes me feel like one wrong move will cost me everything.

The person I am now is not the shell of a person I once was, nor someone I will continue to feel ashamed of — it is someone I have never seen before. A person I can confidently say that I am proud to be. Love was never what I thought. It isn’t just putting someone first or showing up for them when it’s hard — it is so much more than that. Loving somebody is choosing them everyday, not out of obligation, but out of desire. It is remembering the little things, being able to offer patience in difficult times, and knowing that they will always feel the same way about you through everything. Real love doesn't require your own life to be put on hold for another person; it means being able to stand beside your person without them ever dimming your light.