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Looking back now, I realise that after the first three months, my ex treated me with disrespect throughout our relationship. Frustratingly, it was interspersed with random moments of treating me like a princess - the few moments that sustained me and that I clung on to. I was the one who kept trying to make him like me, and he was constantly putting me down my efforts, my dreams and aspirations, telling me that I needed him, and that despite interest from other men, I was unattractive and undesirable and therefore lucky to be with him.
I finally realised I wasn't all that lucky the night we broke up - when he threw me against the wall of his apartment, and yelling the most humiliating insults I have ever been subjected to, raped me and then hit me until I was unconscious. When I came to in the morning, he was all smiles and even brought me breakfast, but I remembered, ran and haven't seen him since.
He still tries to stay in touch. I know I shouldn't, but sometimes in less rational moments I think back and remember some of the happy times we had. And then in other moments, I wish I had had the courage to go straight to the police and nail the bastard.
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