After leaving an abusive relationship, it isn't the bad or good things that I think about most often. Its not that I don’t remember the times where we laughed at something only the two of us could find funny, or the times that I felt afraid. I remember all of these things, especially the latter. For me, it's the mundane, ordinary things we once did together. This morning I woke up from a nightmare and began brushing my teeth to snap myself out of it and begin my day. I looked up at my reflection: my hair thrown back in a messy bun, my eyes were swollen and blotchy, glistening with hot tears that were burning the already agitated skin around my glassy eyes. All I could remember at that moment was a time in which he and I had brushed our teeth.

It was one of many times, his too-large calloused hands squeezed a small dollop of toothpaste onto his brush that frayed at the tips and desperately needed to be replaced. His hands were gentle with this, but with little else. I remember when it happened, I smiled sheepishly with the normality of it, the way his sloping jaw opened to make room for his toothbrush, that the misalignment of his chin became more pronounced when he smiled at me, toothpaste dripping from the corner of his mouth. I giggled and spat, telling him that I liked his smile. Unamused, he spat and locked his jaw, clamping down tightly and tilted it, giving me the very same look that he did when he felt like he needed to dominate, to be in control. I shied instantly, stopped talking, stopped laughing, stopped smiling, stopped breathing. I didn't know what I had done to set him off—I never did—but he became angry quickly, his muscles flexing, knuckles whitening. I became quiet.

When I was a small child, I lived in Tokyo, and we regularly had earthquakes. We would duck under tables and doorways, and waited until a parent, teacher or nanny told us it was safe to return to our seat, to our lives, to normal.

When he got angry, it felt like I was a child again, ducking for cover, waiting for someone to tell me it was OK to come out, that it was back to routine.

At first, there were no earthquakes between him and me. Then they started coming slowly, until the last three months, earthquakes became the norm. The ground quaked beneath me, and I stayed curled up under myself, ducking under anything sturdy, seeming to stay safe and only emerge when I was given clear instruction.

But sometimes, I didn't make it to safe cover in time or I came out from cover too soon, or, sometimes, the support structures just weren’t strong enough.

I got hurt.

You never think you’ll end up in that situation, that you are smart enough and have enough self-worth and dignity to allow yourself to be treated so poorly. But it isn’t that simple.

You don’t put yourself in that situation, you get put in that situation by another person. It doesn’t matter how much confidence you think you have, someone else is capable of destroying it.

I looked in my mirror with my tear-brimmed eyes and wiped the toothpaste from my mouth. I smile suddenly, because I remembered instead the woman I am currently seeing. We were brushing our teeth together when she gave me a slimy minty kiss. I squeeled with both delight and disgust. Being with her is easy and natural.

I think of her now, the mundane things we do together, that we do don’t with overwhelming care and affection towards each other and without fear.

Rebuilding yourself is never easy or simple; I’ve learned that several times. But it’s possible. When he and I broke up, I was devastated for a while, but it took me only a few days to realized that I felt physically relieved because I was no longer hiding under tables and under door frames.

I splashed myself with water, giving myself a clean countenance, a fresh face, a fresh start. I’ll be OK, I am sure of it.