My abuser was the top law enforcement officer in the state. I felt that he would be tipped off immediately and that he would crush me.

His criticism and his efforts to control me escalated. On many occasions, he said he would have to kill me if we broke up. I found excuses to stay in my own apartment or go out of town. I opened up to a few trusted friends. One urged me to speak with a domestic violence expert, who confirmed what I, at some level, already knew: I was in an abusive relationship. Eric’ s behavior mapped with a pattern: entrap, isolate, demean, control, abuse. The expert and I discussed possible avenues for protecting myself — an ethics complaint, a civil claim, going to the police. But my abuser was the top law enforcement officer in the state. I felt that he would be tipped off immediately and that he would crush me.

With the expert’s guidance, I distanced myself from him. “It seems like you’ve been avoiding me,” Eric told me. Without drama, we agreed by phone to break up.

Four days later, the Harvey Weinstein story broke in The New York Times. I felt a wave crash around me. The #MeToo reckoning had begun. On Oct. 10, when The New Yorker published its own Weinstein report, Eric emailed me: “I think we should talk. I want to continue to support your good work.” I don’t think the timing was a coincidence.

I kept my story to myself, but I wondered if he had done similar things to his previous girlfriends. He had told me that he used to date “shark women,” predators who wanted him for his stature, and that I was different. For a long time, I thought the abuse was specific to me. But reading the stories of powerful men engaging in a pattern of abuse, I began to think that maybe I had not been alone. A few weeks later, in conversation with a friend, I discovered that he had abused another woman years before me. I agonized about whether to speak out. If I wasn’t his first victim, I wouldn’t be his last.

I spoke with a lawyer. Even then, it took me months of deliberation to decide to come forward. At the time, I was reading “When Women Were Birds ” by Terry Tempest Williams: “To withhold words is power. But to share our words with others, openly and honestly, is also power.” I began to feel I had to do something.

Eventually, I spoke with Jane Mayer and Ronan Farrow at The New Yorker. I anticipated that I would be perceived as an opportunist or part of a conspiracy. I anticipated that I would be blamed for not leaving sooner. And I worried about my career: If people began to think of me as a victim, would they still hire me? Three of my close friends told me to keep quiet because Eric’s work was so important to the progressive cause. “We need him,” one said. (After the article came out, they supported me, but the earlier comments stung.)