The Abuse Didn’t Stop When I Left. It Just Got Quieter.

Just the sight of his name on my phone made me breathless.
My stomach swirled.
My palms sweated.
My heart fluttered.
My mind raced.

It might sound like the thrill of a new relationship.
It’s not.

It’s the residue of an abusive one.
It’s what happens when trauma doesn’t end at the escape—
Because you’re still co-parenting with the man who hurt you.

This is the part of the story no one talks about.

When I left him fifteen years ago, I thought that was it.
That I would finally be free.
Free of him.
The fear.
The anxiety.
The power calls that demanded to know where I was.
Free of the feeling that every step might crack the floor beneath me.

I was wrong.

Leaving him wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning.

We divorced when my son was three.
By the time we reached the court date, I was already a ghost.
A faint echo of the woman I used to be.
A mother trying to protect her child while rebuilding herself from ruins.

I was trying to begin again while flashbacks hummed like elevator music in a haunted house.
I made coffee while he called me stupid from the corridors of memory.
I played Magnatiles with my son while the sound of him slapping me echoed in the snap of plastic tiles.

I looked over my shoulder, convinced he was following me.
I walked quickly through parking lots, convinced he was watching me.
I gaslit myself about money, convinced I wasn’t capable.
I made myself small around everyone, convinced I wasn’t safe.

His presence lingered like sludge on everything I touched—even though he wasn’t there.

PTSD is common among survivors of intimate partner violence.
I wasn’t experiencing anything rare.
But I didn’t even realize, at the time, that I was still in an abusive cycle.

It showed up every Sunday—when he stood in my foyer to drop off or pick up our son.

He’d make comments about my parenting.
My use of child support.
My supposed dependence on him.

He wanted me to believe I still couldn’t do it on my own.

And then, he’d shift.

He’d act like I was his friend—
confiding in me about troubles with his new wife, asking for support, advice, sympathy.
He always framed it as being “for our son.”
If things were better at his house, he’d say, our son would be happier there.
He would tell me the ways he felt his new wife was emotionally abusive.
That she was always looking for a reason to get angry.
That she wasn’t rational.
That she was incapable of just being happy.

Everything in me wanted to scream, “Karma’s a real bitch, huh?”

But I didn’t.

I listened.
I supported.
I advised.

The context was different.
But I was back under his control again.

The control didn’t stop.
It just got quieter.

Years later, in an EMDR session, I was introduced to the Power and Control Wheel—a tool developed by the Domestic Abuse Intervention Project to help survivors recognize the many ways abusers maintain dominance.

I read through the wheel. Eight spokes. A myriad of tactics.

Every single one felt familiar.
I had lived them all.
I had escaped the home, but I hadn’t escaped the patterns.

I was still anticipating his reactions.
Still creating exit strategies in my mind.

I still heard his voice telling me I was stupid—
And worse, I thought it was mine.

I was still obsessed with being the good girl.
Still holding my breath when someone yelled.
Still terrified of getting in trouble.

I didn’t see any of it as trauma.
I thought trauma was loud.
Obvious. Explosive.

I didn’t know it could move like a stealth bomber—
Quiet. Low to the ground.
Invisible.
But still lethal.

This is how I lived for more than a decade after our divorce.

It wasn’t until I started therapy that I began to see the truth.

I hadn’t failed at healing—
I just never had the space to heal.
Because I was still living in survival mode.

My lack of boundaries with my abuser wasn’t weakness.
It was a trauma response.

The way I centered everyone else’s needs over my own?
That was protection.

I became so focused on keeping people happy that I stopped seeing myself as a person.

My needs felt like a burden.
My truths, too much.

I learned to hide the real parts of me.

I became a professional masker—
So good at it, I forgot there was someone underneath.
And I didn’t feel safe enough to find out who she was.

I didn’t trust my own opinions.
I lived for the validation of others.
I existed in the echo chamber of other people’s approval.

And called it peace.

Slowly, I began to untangle myself from the trauma.
I started to see the truth that had been staring me down the entire time.

He wasn’t powerful.
He was weak.
Pathetic.
Small.
And he knew it.

That’s why he needed control.

So I stopped giving it to him.

I sent his calls to voicemail.
I responded only to texts about our son—calendar changes, school activities, logistics.
I stopped inviting him inside.
He stood on the porch for pickups and drop-offs.

I removed his access to me.
And, as expected, he tried to manipulate his way back in.

He’d text saying we needed to talk.
That he wanted help navigating our son’s anxiety.
That it would be better for our child if we could work together.

I told him to get a therapist.

And every time I held the boundary, I took back a piece of the power I’d given away.
Every ignored call made me stand taller.
Every silence helped me breathe deeper.

The air of freedom filled my lungs.

I won’t lie—
The air burned at first.

I felt guilty for setting a boundary.
Like I was doing something wrong.
Like I was inviting punishment.

I got mad at myself for missing him.
Not him, exactly—
The pattern.
The predictability.

I felt the disconnect happening in real time.
I checked my phone, waiting for the next text.
Wondering why he hadn’t called.
Wondering what he was planning.

I was watching my power return to me—
And I was still confused.

Even when I knew, logically, that I was healing—
It didn’t make sense in my body.
I wasn’t used to holding this kind of power.
I worried it might not be safe with me.

Sometimes, I still do.

I still struggle to trust myself.
To believe I am intelligent.
Or worthy of good things.

I still make excuses for people when they hurt me.
Still believe I am too much and not enough at the exact same time.
Still having trouble voicing my own needs

But, I’m getting better at it all.
Bit-by-bit, I’m remembering I am a person too.
That I am worthy of healing.
That my power isn’t something to fear.

And so, fifteen years after divorcing him, I finally feel safe to share my story.

I’m finally ready to lay down the last boundary—
The one where I don’t keep his secrets anymore.

He’s not going to like that I’m writing this.
He’s going to want to fight.
To blame.
To gaslight me into believing it wasn’t that bad.

I look forward to ignoring his calls.