I have one more story to tell, and then I must bury this time capsule and leave it in the ground until I have healed enough to look at it again. I have let it consume me. I have told much but kept a part hidden, because I knew if I didn't tell it I could fall back if I wanted to. I knew I could keep the door open, but I no longer want to be near that door; I want to run as far from it as I can. I want to put caution tape on the outside, as a reflection of what's behind closed doors.

It was always behind closed doors.

He threw his fist into the wall three times, his knuckles started to bleed and it left three holes that are still there to this day. "You make me so fucking angry," he said; But it was okay because he hit the wall, he didn't hit me.

But was it? Were anger, rage, insults, mind games and gas lighting ever really okay? Was it okay to do it to your girlfriend who was six months pregnant? Was it okay to do it to the mother of your child? Was it ever truly okay? Maybe he doesn't hit you, but that doesn't mean he's not abusive.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you not to take pole dance classes because you'll look like a slut.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you to quit your job because he doesn't like how your boss looks at you.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he makes you try on the outfits you plan to wear and decides which one is appropriate enough.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you that your new business doesn't make a profit so it's a waste of time.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he gets mad at you for not having a job though he made you quit your last one.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he says photo shoots make you look like a slut.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he always looks through your phone.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he blocks guys who like your pictures.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he guilt trips you for not wanting to be around his friends while they smoke pot.

Maybe he doesn't have to hit you for you to be scared. Scared to be yourself, to do what you want or wear what you want; Maybe you are walking on eggshells, in fear of making him mad.

Maybe he didn't need to use his fists to strike fear into you, he did it with his words.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he yells at you and says you're annoying while you're having a panic attack.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you your anxiety is ruining his life.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he makes you so upset you cry and fall asleep downstairs on the couch.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he sits on the opposite side of the room from you because he doesn't want to be near you.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he purposefully calls other girls hot to make you upset then laughs at your reaction.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he leaves you alone in the hotel room while he goes down to the bar.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you no one wants to be your friend.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he forces you to take down pictures he thinks are "too provocative".

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he lets his family insult you then says they're right.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you going to college is stupid, that real people work from the ground up.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you not to talk about politics because your opinions anger his male family members.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he leaves you fearful of how to handle him when he's intoxicated.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you that you're the reason he needed to get high that time.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he finds something wrong with all of your friends and family members.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you he hopes your daughter looks like you but doesn't get your brains.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but his energy ruins a day that you should be celebrating instead of fighting.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but when you call him out for lying he calls you psychotic.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he says you have mental problems.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but when he screws up and he begs you to take him back when no one else wants anything to do with him, he tells you he'll never hurt you again and love you for the rest of your lives and he insults you the next day.

Maybe he doesn't hit you, but he tells you the only reason other guys didn't treat you as horribly as he did was because they wanted to sleep with you.

He never left a visible scar, they stayed behind closed doors. No one heard the screaming, no one heard the insults or saw the looks on your face, no one saw you shaking in fear, no one saw that anxiety took over you life when his control entered it, no one put the pieces of the puzzle together, no one ever looked at me and asked if I was okay, because no one saw any bruises or scars.

They were there, you just can't see them.

He didn't hit my body, he didn't abuse my bones or my skin. He never laid a finger on me, he didn't need to. He abused my mind, my emotions, my peace. He robbed me of some of the happiest days of my life.

He took a girl who was 18 years old, so full of life and full of passion. I, at 18 years old knew exactly who I was and who I wanted to be. I had never been a puppet till I met the ventriloquist. I went for dreams people my age wouldn't have dared to take risks on, I was beautiful and bright and sunny and had everything going for me. You took a beautiful young girl, and you sucked me dry. You sucked out every piece of me that made me who I am so that all I had left was you and then you dropped me when I held on.

They see his charming smile and that he makes polite conversation, he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to do that. "He's so nice, she must be crazy." "It can't be as bad as she says, he's a great guy." That's the thing about emotional abuse. It's silent. There're no bruises screaming "help me" there's no interventions or "we're worried about you." It's going day in and day out thinking there's no way out.

That you'll feel this horrible about yourself for the rest of your life, you were told for so long that you weren't special or beautiful or smart, you were told you were worthless, stupid, and slutty. You think no one else will be able to love you and that this is what you deserve, you'll never be able to leave them.

Until one day, you do.

One day you're watching a movie, and you laugh. You pause, you haven't heard that laugh in so long. You've been trapped in the basement so long you forgot what the sunshine looks like, but once you see it you never want to be indoors ever again.

And you finally leave.

They make you feel like you're nothing without them, they try to bring you down from afar, they belittle you and victimize themselves, they say the same things they said to you to everyone else. But with a condescending twist like,

"I pray she regains her sanity."

But I did, the moment I left.

I don't tell this story because no one from the outside looking in knew. I don't tell it to bash or ruin a life. I know what it feels like, and I don't wish it on anyone. My words are my canvas and my story is my art, and if people didn't want you to tell others what they did to you then they shouldn't have done it. For me, telling this story is closure and hoping other women can see that there is healing on the other side. I wanted to tell my story, before completely closing this chapter of my life.

For the women crying on their bedroom floor, scared to speak up because no one would ever believe their perfect boyfriend calls them a worthless whore, this one is for you. Your scars matter and you deserve to heal.

But it's okay they said because he never hit you, right? Well, maybe he doesn't hit you, but maybe you didn't need to bleed to feel like you were dying.

There is hope and healing ahead. I know, because I am a survivor.

According to the Domestic Abuse Shelter Organization About 4,000 women, a year die from Domestic Violence, that's about 10 women a day.

If you or someone you know is in an abusive relationship do not hesitate to call The National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233