Where to begin?

I guess at the beginning. Many moons ago, I was an innocent, lively, naive fairytale believer who was convinced her knight in shining armor was out there. After two years of building my reputation and personal identity on my college campus, I had established myself in a positive light. I was friendly, energetic, not afraid of what others thought of me, and willing to be my own person. This is where you came. I was nervous at first, pretending not to notice you, to see if I was even worth your time. Even though I was two years older, it didn't seem to matter. I was less confident about you. You tried to be my friend and get close. You seemed to cherish our conversations and loved when I confided in you. After two months and another poor attempt at being my knight in shining armor, I did it: I let you in. We were young — freshly stepping into a relationship that we didn't know would be tested numerous times. The connection was pure. We were two people who established a friendship before a relationship. That fed into my idea that life was a sappy romantic comedy where the best friend ends up with the girl. You made me feel appreciated, loved, cherished, noticed — everything you hope that the main female character gets in the end. You were my first, and you were gentle about it. You made me feel sexy, heard, and admired. These feelings took over the next few years of our relationship. I was a goner. You were it: my passion, my love, my life.

You tried to be my friend and get close. You seemed to cherish our conversations and loved when I confided in you.

Then comes the summer after I graduated. That's where it all changes. I went home two hours from you. I was so insanely hooked that I let  you get in the way of literally everything. I should have recognized it then and there but my vision was clouded by our passion for each other. You made me feel like your love was gold and that I had to hold on for dear life. We talked every night for hours. These were what would end up haunting my ability to have open honest conversations. Our phone calls started out great — sharing thoughts of our days with a touch of the sappy I love you and I miss you. Sometimes they would even go so long that I would fall asleep to the sound of your voice. It is here that we built a routine that I would come to regret and despise.

Your happiness consumed my life. And yet it seemed impossible to obtain.

The year I graduated really affected us. I did everything in my power to make you happy and feel confident in our relationship. Your happiness consumed my life. And yet it seemed impossible to obtain. This is where those conversations started to affect me. We would talk, and you started showing your insecurities. I would mention the smallest thing and suddenly we would be in an argument that would end with me in tears begging you to forgive me; you would convince me I was the guilty party. The yelling is what would pierce my heart over and over again. I would feel ashamed for having any contact outside of you. Eventually I would be alienated from everyone. At the time, you were the one I was going to marry, you were my happiness, and I couldn't lose my life line. I would take the abusive conversations over and over again and still wake up the next day waiting for it to happen again. I would take this abuse for too long, it would affect me to much, and I would take too long to deal with it. None of it phased me. I didn't understand it when it was happening. But now I know none of it was me, it was simply that I was not the way you wanted me.

I would mention the smallest thing and suddenly we would be in an argument that would end with me in tears begging you to forgive me; you would convince me I was the guilty party.

I was so deeply in love with you that the rules you defined for me were upheld. If they weren't... I was too afraid of the consequences. I had to appease you. I was genuinely going crazy convincing myself that this wasn't anything but normal — all relationships were like this behind the judgmental searing eyes of family and friends. Even with my most trustworthy confidante, my mother, sitting me down to convince me this isn't normal, it didn’t change anything. My response was always, "But I love him, I want to be with him, and he says he will change." She knew the first two were right; it was the last that was troublesome. These arguments would leave me feeling worthless, hopeless, and defeated. I had become isolated from everyone I knew and yet I was still convincing myself that I was to blame for it all. I was in denial. But not anymore. Now I look back and want to yell at that girl. So much pain, so much sorrow, and yet I stayed there for eight years. How does one even begin to come back from that? By realizing, even if only for a second, that you are worth more and deserve more.