By Bria Medina

There are a few moments in life where you pause and reflect on how you’ve gotten yourself in a particular situation and then you begin to think how you’re going to get yourself out of it. Mine was on a Sunday in August. I found myself on the side of the road, in a city I wasn’t familiar with, changing a popped tire while thick raindrops blurred my vision and soaked my clothes. The tools slipped out of my hands and my frustration grew until my tears mixed in with the rain. Defeated, I climbed back into my car and stared at two names, my dad and my (now ex) boyfriend—I chose to call my dad.

It seems like a simple decision, but in that moment I finally listened to my gut that had been screaming at me for the past year. Something had to give. I finally got back home and decided to call my ex to tell him what happened, and as a test of his compassion which seemed to have disappeared. “Hey, just calling to let you know I popped a tire on the highway and had to pull over and change it in the rain.” Silence. The lump in my throat hardened as I faced the sour truth I’d been running from. “Is that it?” He asked as if I told him I ate a bacon egg and cheese for breakfast, which is also quite exciting, to be honest. “Yes.” I squeaked back. He hung up.

I’ve always been the type of person to figure things out myself. My strength and weakness is independence. But with him, I threw that out the window and thought I had found the man I waited for my whole life. He all but rode in on a white horse wearing metal armor when we met. I fell hard and fast as people only encouraged my thoughts by saying we were so cute, praising him and us on social media. There wasn’t a soul in our city that didn’t know about us. I felt accomplished by bagging this man and pushing each other to be better.

Then one day, it ended. There are too many red flags to remember before I finally woke up to the reality that I had to cut this relationship loose. I couldn’t find a name for what was happening to me because the physical abuse only happened once…maybe twice, and of course I blamed myself for it. So if it wasn’t that, what was it? What type of label do you place on something that leaves you feeling drained, beat up in the corner, paranoid that he's running off with another girl while you're working, insecure from your body to your intelligence, speechless when he threatens to expose the deepest parts of your shame to the world, leaves you helpless and frightened to make the wrong move because then it'll set him off...what do you call that? Ashamed, I stuffed this secret to the ends of my mind to find ways to cope. But not anymore, something was wrong. The first person I turned to was Google and the answers I found triggered the tears and endless snot-fueled sobs I’d been holding in for a year. It was my first release, my first breath of freedom.

Emotional and verbal abuse from a narcissist is hardly talked about. In the Black and Brown community, there is no such thing as emotional abuse, a fact confirmed by my then-boss when I told him why we had broken up. It took me a few days, many Google searches, hours of reading, and a list of his abuse towards me to finally open up about our relationship to my parents. My hands trembled and my voice shook when I uttered the words “abuse.” It is a terrifying thing to admit to others. It carries shame, hurt, embarrassment, and every other vile feeling you could to admit it to yourself, never mind admitting it to others. It felt like I had failed at the only thing I was getting praised for.

I barely prepared myself for the words to say to him when we  broke-up, so when the backlash came in the form of a million texts calling me horrible names, Twitter outbursts directed at me and my family, threats of more violence, and a few unexpected run-in’s at my then-job, I was scared to live in my own home. Scared that one day, in the dead of night, he’d be there at the front door ready to hurt me more. It was during those fearful moments that I confided in my parents and friends, who met me with nothing but understanding, support, and love. I am forever grateful for those that listened to me cry for hours and those that took me to the club to cope. The healing that came out of both forms of love and freedom brought back a confidence I didn’t even have before the relationship.

It was only a year and few months of my life but I learned more about the cycle of abuse in that short time than I had ever in my four years at New York University studying Psychology. More importantly, I learned more about the strength of finding a healthy and loving community. There is healing in learning, there is healing in crying, there is healing in consuming the biggest pizza with your friends, there is healing in getting a little too drunk at the club, and there is healing in moving on. The biggest freedom came when I let go of my most prized possession. I held the acceptance of someone else so close to my chest that it silenced my voice and almost killed my joy. When I realized that this life is something I can do on my own, equipped with the love of my community, I knew that I am strong and bold enough to sprint after my dreams and those that care will cheer and run with me. It was the hardest and best lesson in personal relationships I’d ever learned and for that, I thank him.