While most soon-to-be-married couples spend the night before their wedding in celebration and preparation, I spent mine crying to my mom on the floor of my bedroom after my soon-to-be husband had an angry outburst on our drive home from our rehearsal dinner.

It was the first time I had heard him yell and demean me with such passion, and it left me questioning if I was making the right decision. After much thought, prayer, and conversation, I came to the conclusion that the episode at hand was not true to his character and was likely stress-induced. I dried my tears and traded my nerves for excitement.

As I would soon find out, the episode at hand was not merely stress-induced, it was a furiously waving red flag stamped with the word abuse.

It started with words.

“You are so judgmental,” he would tell me when I expressed an opinion that didn’t reflect his, “and that’s probably why you don’t have many friends.” He delivered his insults with the knife of a satisfied, matter-of-fact tone.

“What do you think people are going to think of you if you leave me?” he would question, with a smirk on his face, when I expressed a desire to leave our toxic relationship. “How do you think it will look?”

“God isn’t going to help you,” my ex-partner, who I met in church, told me as I was having a breakdown after one of his violent outbursts.

“I am so fucking sick of you. I want you to know how fucking tired I am of you,” he would scream in my face, with veins bulging from his neck, as I cowered in the corner he had pushed me into.

“If you leave me, I will ruin your business and take everything you have,” he would threaten.

Then, it progressed to physical violence.

While eating a meal he prepared, the fire alarm in our building went off. I jumped out of my seat to grab valuables and make my way outside. He yelled at me to sit down and eat the dinner he had made. I could tell an outburst was rising inside of him, so I did as he said but let out a small sigh as I sat back down to the table, with the fire alarm still shrieking. That set him off. He grabbed his plate and threw it.

While out with some friends, I let him know I was going to step outside for some air. He became furious. He trailed behind me and began telling me how stupid I was for walking outside. The alcohol stirred into his already violent tendencies, and I was scared. I walked away from him, but he chased me, eventually catching me and twisting my wrist.

He woke me in the still dark hours of the morning to stir up a fight. I didn’t respond as he had hoped, so he began grabbing my belongings, telling me they were his now. “See these Honda keys? Mine now.” “You don’t have an iPhone any more,” he said as he added it to my belongings in his hands. Next was my laptop, my camera, my hard drive. His hands were overflowing just as his mouth was overflowing with threats and insults. This was the most scared I’d ever been of him, and I tried to escape our apartment. He shoved me every time I tried to pass him. He was yelling so loudly that our neighbors were banging on the walls. I managed to get out of the apartment after he dropped my things and bent down to pick them up. Without my keys or phone, all I could do was stand in the parking garage and wait for someone to come out, or for him to leave. He soon came out to leave for work, walked past me, and said “Why do you make me do things like that?” He tossed my keys at me like nothing had happened.

Then, it progressed to silence.

When I tried to talk to him, he would close his eyes, lean back into the couch, and pretend I did not exist. When it upset me to the point of tears, a little smirk would rise in the corners of his mouth like it was exactly what he wanted. His apathy infused every aspect of our relationship, and he became a dead weight I was carrying, crushing my self worth.

My abusive relationship didn’t match what I thought abuse looked like, so I didn’t see it as such for a very long time. I lived in an environment of belittlement, violence, and negativity, and that defined my self worth. I woke up each day wishing I hadn’t. With the help of a wise counselor and my family, I finally began to see things clearly. The fear of judgement, loneliness, and worthlessness diffused when I stopped allowing my abuser to be my source of truth. I began to see that my partner left me long ago, and I gained the strength to leave him.

Then, I progressed.

It happened slowly, but it happened. I progressed from a broken person to one that picked up the pieces and rebuilt herself.

Now, I’m sitting over my keyboard rummaging for the perfect words to help you if you find yourself feeling trapped in a similar situation, but I’m realizing the perfect words do not exist. Just like my abusive relationship did not match any others I had heard the stories of, yours likely won’t be a perfect match to anyone else’s. What I want to tell you, though, is that you are fully capable of rebuilding yourself.

I can tell you the things that helped me put my pieces back together — things like a wonderful therapist, reconnecting with friends I had neglected, journaling, bubble baths, being gentle with myself, re-learning how I enjoy spending my time — but your path will undoubtedly look a bit different.

The most important thing I want to tell you is that when you rebuild yourself, because you most certainly will, share your story. Your story is the most powerful tool you have to combat abuse. The more stories we circulate into the universe, the more people we can empower to rebuild themselves.