I Didn't Know It Was Abuse Until I Couldn't Breathe Anymore

I didn’t have bruises. I didn’t flinch when he entered the room.
But I couldn’t breathe.

Not literally—but in the way your soul slowly suffocates when you’re never truly seen, never heard, never believed. For years, I convinced myself it was just miscommunication, that I was too sensitive, too emotional, too needy.

He never shouted until the end once I woke up to the abuse. He just withheld—his attention, his affection, his words.
He created a void, and in that silence, I filled in the blanks with my own self-doubt.

I would ask questions, and he would stare at the TV.
I would cry, and he would walk out of the room.
I would express how I felt, and he would say, nothing.

It was a thousand tiny dismissals. A thousand invisible cuts.

By the time I realized I was in a storm, I had already been standing in the rain for years.

But one day, I saw the same tactics being used on my child—
the same silence, the same subtle blame, the same dismissive glances and negative talk..
And something in me cracked open.

That’s when I stopped asking for clarity and started reclaiming my reality.

Today, I am rebuilding. Still unsure at times, still tired—but breathing. Fully.
This is not the end of my story—it’s the middle.
But I share it because maybe, just maybe, you’re standing in the same quiet storm I was.

And if you are—let this be your first deep breath.

You are not crazy. You are not overreacting.
You are a survivor in the making. Carlin