Sixteen years old.

If I could tell you anything, I would tell you how much it hurt. I would tell you that when I was sixteen years old, I stopped believing in love. I lost hope. I started thinking that I was crazy. I would tell you that the first night I cried, turned into every night. I would tell you that I sat on the loveseat in my living room, facing away from my family, and silently sobbed.

I looked at the glow of my phone and saw the messages. It was like your words jumped out of the text and strangled me with your insults. "You're lazy. Fat. Sad. Emotional. Too artistic." Then the final blow, "You will never be good enough. No one will ever love you like I will. Without me you are nothing. You are better off dead if you aren't with me."

At sixteen years old I slept more on the bathroom floor than I did in my own bed. I felt heartbreak like it was a physical ailment. My heartstrings were snapping, and I swore I would never love again. Because love hurt. It stung, and it broke down.

Growing up, I was told to never depend on a man. Be your own. Do your best. And don't depend on anyone. Be strong, and don't cry in front of them. I loved and loved and loved and convinced myself that the abuse was just the price I needed to pay to be loved. I should endure the physical and emotional blows because that's what love is.

I was sixteen years old. I didn't want to go to school anymore, I didn't want to see the looks in the hallway. I didn't want to be the targeted girl who they wanted to make jealous. Girls threatened to hurt me over rumors I never spread. They threatened to hit me with words I never said. I didn't know these girls. I stopped playing sports to avoid mutual friends because now they hated me too over things I still had never said.

I was trapped. I was spiraling down the drain of depression, anxiety, and heartache. When I reached out, I was told I was too emotional, that I needed to suck it up. I needed to just stop. Stop crying. Stop caring. I hid in the bathroom during lunch because I couldn't face the kids at my table. I was sixteen. I was class president. I was a well-known artist in my town with a promising career. And I didn't know who I was anymore. I felt detached and out of my own body. I thought that was heartbreak. At sixteen, I learned that that wasn't heartbreak. That was abuse.

Emotional abuse is often looked down on as if it isn't as painful as a punch to the face. The difference between physical and emotional abuse is that bruises fade. Words seem to linger in the air and haunt your dreams.

At seventeen, I learned the words 'gaslighting.'

Gaslighting: manipulate (someone) by psychological means into questioning their own sanity.

I had been questioning my sanity every day since I had turned sixteen. I turned to therapy. I turned to the arts. I drew with my heart, what was left of it. I renewed relationships. I renewed friendships with people who had watched me run myself into the ground. I learned that real friends will watch you burn and try to put the fire out, no matter how many times you light the match yourself.

I had lost friends. I had lost myself. I had lost hope. Slowly, it started to heal. I had nightmares every night. But I would wake up and realize that that wasn't me anymore. I rebuilt myself from the very bottom, from the dark place I had called home for years. Slowly I let the light in.

Eighteen years old.

Abuse was long behind me but still haunted my dreams every so often. I moved to college. I started over. A fresh, clean start. I made new friends. I made lifelong friends. I made enemies. I made a new routine for myself and started caring for myself.

Twenty years old.

I met my soon-to-be-husband. I still get nightmares, but now I am held close by someone who I know truly wants the best for me in life. And in my deepest heart of hearts, I know that his love is pure. I don't hurt anymore in the way I used to. I learned what my emotional triggers are, and how to handle them.

I learned that medication is okay and that the chemical imbalance in my brain isn't me. My brain isn't me. I am my mind. I am how I choose to think. I am my mind. My mind was once under a fog of emotional turmoil, but I promised myself never again. I have promised myself that I will grow from my experiences. I am not my past. I am not my abuse. It was not my fault. I am more than my past, and I will always choose to confront my fears, no matter how long it takes. I will grow from before, and flourish in the future.

Out of the hurt, I learned. I learned that it's okay to need someone. It's okay to cry and to cry like hell. I learned that men cry. And it's okay to cut out the negativity in your life, just the way you would cut out the cancer in your body. I learned that I can be independent AND need people too. I learned that there is a harsh difference between codependence and a nurturing relationship. I learned to appreciate the small things, because they are the big things.

I can never thank my S.O. enough for learning my triggers, learning my mind, and loving me for everything in between. In the process of losing hope, I learned what real love is. If I could tell my abuser anything, I would tell them that I have found the one whom my soul loves, and I have never been happier. There is always light at the end of the tunnel, just please remember to look for it.

If you or someone you love is suffering from ANY form of abuse, please reach out. Remember, abuse comes in many forms. You don't have to see bruises to see a damaged soul. Abuse is not the end. You never know who you could save by reaching out!

National Domestic Violence Hotline: http://www.thehotline.org/ or 1-800-799-7233