Before you read the following, let me tell you a couple of things. The first thing I would like to tell you is that I am giving this a TRIGGER WARNING. The second thing I would like to tell you is that I am a survivor of psychological abuse. Psychological abuse has been said to be the worst type of abuse, because the victim does not always know what is going on, before it is to late. The third thing I would like to tell you is that I wrote this nearly one year ago, when I was just about to graduate from high school. If you have a moment, I would like to share my story with you, and, before you even begin to read, I thank you for listening.

So, this is what senior year is like. Or rather, this is what MY senior year is like, and let me tell you, it hasn’t been all fun and games, like it’s rumored to be.

My senior year didn’t begin in August like my friends’ did. Instead, mine started September 1st - almost three weeks after they started school. A week before my school started, several things happened that changed my world, and it wasn’t all for the good.

Let me give you a summarized backstory. I met a man, and thought I had fallen in love. At the time, I didn’t realize that I was changing, and not for the better. I wasn’t the same Tessa my parents, other family members, and friends knew and loved. Even I was beginning to become unsure of who I was. That was some scary shit right there, let me tell you. What was happening was that he was psychologically abusing me. He was causing me to think things I wouldn’t have normally thought, and he was slowly tearing me away from my family.

The avalanche of issues continued to grow faster and faster and eventually I needed help. I would come home from class and cry, nearly every day. Little things, like having a voiced raised at me, would cause me to freak out and cry. Does this sound familiar to anyone? Well, if it does, then you know what I was going through. I was developing anxiety.

What was also happening was that I suddenly had no motivation anymore. I didn’t feel like I needed to get up in the mornings and go to class, and I was putting on a fake smile, and a fake personality for everyone around me. The moment I closed my bedroom door after getting home? The fake personality came off and I cried. The moment I reopened the door? On went the fake personality again. Along with anxiety, I was becoming depressed.

So, anyway, on 26 August 2014, I upped and left Oklahoma, and moved out of my parents’ house. I moved 1,875 miles away to Oregon, and in with my grandparents. I started school out here, and to be honest, I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I do know one thing for sure.

I hate big schools.

There’s a reason I always chose to go to small schools, where everyone knew everyone. There was more teacher-student interaction. Out here, there are just over 1,800 students in the building, compared to the maybe 500 students back home. Major difference. Back home, I loved how the teachers and students felt like family to each other. Everyone knew everyone and we were all good friends. Out here, nobody knows anyone, and the teachers are very difficult to see and talk to. With classes of 50 + students, teachers don’t really seem to care. Just get the kids through to graduation and into college.

One thing I really hate about living out here is that I don’t get to see my little brothers. They’re at a point in their lives, where their big sister should be there to help them out, and where am I? 1,875 miles away. When I first moved out here, I was told that my brothers were crying themselves to sleep, because they missed me. The oldest one, especially, wanted me to stay more than anything, and I had to explain to him that I couldn’t stay. That it wasn’t safe for me to stay.

I have never seen a heart shatter faster, and that was the first time I really broke.

Today is 13 April 2015. It’s about 19:30, and I really should be doing my homework, but I had to get this out and down on paper. Even if it is digital paper.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is, someone is always fighting a battle that you don’t know about. For me, my battles are as follows: PTRS (a form of PTSD), depression, anxiety, and not being accepted as bisexual by the ones that matter the most to me.

What sucks is that three of my invisible battles are because of one man. A man that I thought I loved more than anything else in the world. Boy, was I wrong.

If you’re reading this right now, don’t let anyone manipulate you in any way. Psychological abuse is actual abuse and let me tell you, it sucks. Why? Because most of the time, you, the victim, don’t even realize it’s happening. It takes someone, sometimes even multiple people, telling you that you are not yourself, and you are not okay, for you to realize that something is going on in your relationship, and you need to get your ass out of that relationship before it gets any worse.

Again, let me reiterate:

Psychological abuse is actual abuse.

What happens?

You - the victim - are unknowingly manipulated to think things, and act in ways you wouldn’t normally do.

The worst part?

There’s never any evidence that you’ve been psychologically abused.

So… I guess I should go back to the beginning of this, and try again.

Hello. My name is Tessa B, and I am finishing my senior year in Oregon. I moved 1,875 miles away from my family in Oklahoma to get out of an abusive relationship, and start over. Because of that relationship, I am on medications for depression and anxiety, but I am healing. I have a small handful of close friends whom I love dearly and would do anything for. They are like my sisters, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Healing takes time, but then again, everything worth doing takes time. All I ask is that you listen to me, help me heal, and remind me that you’re going to be here for me. I can’t do this alone.

Today is 13 April 2015. The time is 19:40, and I am sitting here, putting my thoughts onto paper, hoping someone will listen.

Thank you.