This piece was authored anonymously by a Kenyon student. Trigger warning: this piece confronts emotional abuse.
I can’t remember the first time I thought my sweet, charming, funny boyfriend might be abusing me, but I remember the last. I had locked myself in the bathroom while on a trip to visit him. Nothing about the situation was black or white, except the knowledge that I was being abused.
We’d met towards the beginning of my sophomore year. I remember my knee brushing up against his and wishing I hadn’t worn such baggy pants that day. Suddenly there he was, and nothing was the same. I felt at home with him in a bigger sense than I had ever known before; I hadn’t realized how inexplicably comforting that could be. Continue reading