Editor's note: This article contains detailed accounts of physical and emotional abuse. Some individuals may find these accounts distressing. Please, read with caution.

It started in a seemingly innocuous way--as it does for many. I was a naïve college student, married far too young to someone I barely knew. We were in the drive-thru of a Taco Bell, and he turned to ask me what I wanted as he rolled down the window. I told him, and was mildly surprised when he repeated the order to the cashier--he was missing an item and substituted another for a salad. I stayed silent through the entire transaction. This had never happened before. I wasn't sure if he had just misunderstood me or if he was implying something, so I cracked a joke. His response turned me cold.

"You don't need to be eating so much, that's all. You'll get over it."

He shrugged it off, as if it wasn't a hurtful thing to say. I protested, saying that if he was concerned for my health or my weight, that there were other ways to go about communicating that. The drive home had never seemed longer, and I will never forget the things he said. Eventually, I grew tired of arguing, told him so, and turned the radio up to signal I was finished. He angrily turned the radio off, glaring at me challengingly. I went to turn the radio back on when he snatched up my hand, bending my index finger back so forcefully tears sprung to my eyes. He didn't let go, and continued to hold it in an unnatural position until I begged him to stop. I was so stunned and confused, I had lost my appetite. I spent the rest of the night in our room.

That was the beginning of one of the most confusing and terrifying periods of my entire life. 4,774,000 women in the United States will experience what I did--or worse--every year. Every 20 minutes, someone becomes a victim of intimate partner abuse. Every 9 seconds, somewhere in the country, a woman is beaten by her partner. It's an epidemic, and it's one that too often goes undiscussed, for a myriad of reasons. One of those reasons is the simple fact that sometimes victims don't recognize that what they're experiencing is abuse. I myself had trouble in the beginning. I rationalized and excused a lot of behavior that I shouldn't have--and later I felt guilty for that, because I was a successful student and by all accounts a reasonably intelligent person. How did I let this happen, not once but many times?

He was apologetic in the days after that first incident. He had a thousand well-rehearsed excuses. He bought flowers. He cooked dinner. He surprised me at work with my favorite lunch. All was well and right in the world again--until it wasn't.

I came home late from work. I was supposed to get off at seven, but no one showed up to relieve me until after eight-thirty. At the time, I worked managing the busy university broadcasting lab, and I couldn't leave thousands of dollars worth of equipment unattended. I texted him about the issue and got no reply. When I got home, it was clear he hadn't seen my message, or he didn't care. As soon as I walked in the door, the accusations began. He wanted to know who I had been with, if I had been cheating, how stupid did I think he was? The insults started, and I didn't back down. After all was said and done, I blamed myself. If I had just kept quiet and apologized, if I hadn't returned every barb he hurled at me, maybe things would have turned out differently. He pushed me against the wall and began punching the space right next to my head. I was terrified as he screamed at me,

"This could be your fucking face right now!"

After he stopped, breathing heavily and staring at me glassy-eyed, I pushed him away and fled to the bedroom, locking myself in. I hid from him the rest of the night. The next couple of weeks went by without incident, and I tried my best to hold my tongue. I was optimistic that things would get better.

But they didn't. The incidents became more volatile and more frequent. Once, during a particularly vicious verbal attack, I threw my hands up. I said I wasn't going to talk to him until he calmed down, and I turned to grab my keys and leave. He thundered across the room, grabbing me roughly around the waist and swinging me to the ground, hard. I landed roughly on my hip and my entire side went numb, I struggled to get free. The whole time he was yelling,

"Don't you ever fucking walk away from me when I'm talking to you!"

Despite the bruise blooming on my hip, I was the one who ended up apologizing. That's how it usually ended, in fact. He convinced me that I made him feel dumb and inadequate. He tried to make it seem like a compliment. I was just so much better than him and I rubbed it in his face. He couldn't believe that he was even with someone like me, and he was scared that I'd find someone better and leave him. That's why he couldn't control his temper--he just loved me too much. And I bought it.

And I continued to buy it, for months. I didn't think that what I was experiencing was physical and emotional abuse. I thought perhaps this was normal for newly married couples, that everyone experienced this volatile period before they were able to blend seamlessly together as a united front. Surely all of these trials would just serve to make us closer. It didn't help that the few people I confided in dismissed my concerns. I distinctly remember being told that what he had done was not abuse, because he had never struck me with a closed fist. What he had done to me was not abuse, because I had never been to the hospital or gotten police involved. What he had done to me was not abuse, because I was a "mouthy" and "difficult" woman who deserved at least half the blame for the explosive altercations. By this point, my self-esteem was so abysmally low, I just agreed. This was my fault. He said he had never lost his temper this way with anyone else, so obviously the problem was me--some sort of fundamental flaw in my character. So I stayed, and I suffered.

The last straw came shortly after the Christmas holiday. We had been visiting my parents for the weekend, but they left for a work function as we were packing our things to depart. I can't remember what the fight was about. I don't even recall objecting in my usual sharp-tongued fashion. All I remember is pulling open the drawer of the antique dresser in my childhood bedroom. A large mirror protruded from the top, and when I glanced up I saw him behind me, rushing toward me. I will never forget the look on his face. I don't possess the necessary vocabulary to describe the fury and hatred I saw in his scowl. I wanted to run but there was no time. I just cringed and braced myself for the impact I knew was coming. He grabbed me and threw me against the wall, screaming obscenities and struggling against me, preventing me from fleeing. I kept begging him to stop, tears flowing down my face. Eventually, he did, and he continued packing like nothing had happened.

My mind was racing. My heart was pounding. I could have refused to go with him. I could have locked myself in the bathroom and called my parents, or 911. But I feared that he would kill me before anyone would be able to get there. He'd threatened this before, saying if I tried to leave he'd rather us both be dead. I decided the best course of action was to act like nothing was wrong. I did my best to behave in a way that wouldn't arouse any suspicion. We both loaded our bags into my car, and I drove us the two and a half hours back home, to Kansas.

When we pulled up in front of our apartment building, he got out and grabbed his duffel bag out of the back. As soon as he closed the door, I locked the car. He looked confused for a moment, and more than a little irritated. He bent down and stared at me through the passenger side window. I had already put the car in reverse.

"I'm not coming in with you." I said loudly, so he could hear. "I'm leaving."

I expected him to hit the car, or try to punch out the window. I expected him to chase me screaming. Instead, he just stood there looking lost as I drove away.

That night, I began the painful and complicated process of removing every trace of him from my life. It was not easy, and I didn't have a lot of support. I lost a lot of friends, people I had known for many years. No one wanted to believe that my ex-husband, the talented and well-liked All-Star athlete, was capable of violence that didn't occur on the football field--and he was more than happy to play the victim. He spread lies about me that some people still believe to this day. We went to college in a small town, and rumors flew fast. I was no longer welcome at many places I used to frequent, and I had to change my entire university schedule to avoid seeing him. For the first few years, I lived in fear of running into him. But I was determined to be successful without him. I was determined to be happy, and determined to forget.

I wish I could say that was the only abusive relationship I've ever been in. But I fell victim to a practiced emotional terrorist in the not-so-distant past. In some ways, for me anyway, that was worse. Bruises and cuts would fade and the hurt would disappear, but I still carry emotional scars from the things he said to me. But still, for years I stayed. Again, I had trouble recognizing that what I was experiencing was abuse. And again, I blamed myself. That is why I'm sharing my story, to hopefully help at least one person realize that what is happening to them isn't normal, and that it isn't their fault. Just because a man doesn't hit you in the face, doesn't mean that what he's doing isn't abuse. Just because a man chooses to wound you and control you with his words rather than his fists, doesn't mean he isn't abusive. If a man tries to control you through fear and belittlement, no matter the means--it's abuse, and you don't deserve it. It took a long time for me to learn this lesson, but it is one that I won't forget, and one that I'll continue to share.

If you or someone you know is being abused, don't wait to get help. Don't rationalize the behavior. Don't make excuses. Most of all, don't blame yourself--you are worthy, you are important, you are wonderfully made, and you are loved. Reach out someone you trust before it's too late. There are resources available to you--the National Domestic Violence Hotline is open 24/7, and help and support is just seconds away. You can reach them at 1-800-799-7233.