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I endured countless fights and anti-Semitic insults.I did enjoy brief hours of good times at the beach or shopping, but I also endured death threats, and I never ventured out with him without wondering if now would be the time he might make good on those threats. I suppose I still believed that if maybe we moved to a new environment, things would get better again.
He had a story for everything, and a vehement voice that could convince anyone of anything. He was hardly ever there when I needed him to be -- always out drinking with friends who inflated his rock star ego, or playing music with young girls -- but the few moments of what-seemed-like dedication were enough to keep me attached.
I believed moving in together would change everything - A change of scenery and lifestyle would bring a change of priority, right? After only a month of constant fighting, and his drinking, drug use, and gallivanting around town with younger girls who treasured his rock star past, I packed my bags.
The torment of those years is mine, and mine alone.
Some would say that I was stupid and "asking for it," with going back so many times and sticking around with an abusive man.
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"This is very typical of people we see who commit domestic violence."I was rushed to the hospital, where my life instantly became an episode of "Law & Order: SVU." Each bruise was documented and photographed. Nurses consoled me when I couldn't move my jaw to answer their questions.
I went through the motions of it all completely alone and devoid of any emotion.
Less than three months later, he threw something at my face, and a few weeks after that, he slept with a girl on our couch. I ignored my friends' warnings and spent six months living out of a suitcase in what had now become his apartment -- no longer ours.