Reddit Stories - Partner CONTINUED to make unfounded ACCUSATIONS about my FAITHFULNESS and began making threats

Episode Date: November 1, 2025

#redditstories #askreddit #aita #relationships #trustissues #accusations #faithfulness #threatsSummary: My partner continued to make unfounded accusations about my faithfulness and began making threats.Tags: redditstories, askreddit, reddit, aita, tifu, relationships, trustissues, accusations, faithfulness, threats, partner, accusations, faithful, threats, trust, relationship, loyalty, insecurity, communication, doubtsBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/reddit-stories--6237355/support.

I hope you enjoy this story. Partner continued to make unfounded accusations about my faithfulness and began making threats about harming me if I were ever unfaithful. Concerned about my safety, I reached out for support online and received confirmation that I was indeed at risk, prompting me to take action. To escape with police help and leave everything behind. Me, 25F, and my boyfriend, George, 28M, have been together for a long time now. He's going to propose to me this summer after I graduate.

I went back to college for a second degree. We're planning our wedding and honeymoon, designing our future house, and we talk about the child we want to have someday. I think it's pretty safe to say things are serious between us, and we're deeply in love. However, things have not been so easy for us in the past. Our combined anxiety has caused a lot of grief for us. I'm still struggling with being abandoned and left to fend for myself as a child, and he's struggling with deep fears from past abuse by his father, brother, and ex-wife,

who were all mentally and physically abusive. Understand that George is so sweet and loving. He does his best to help me and encourage me any way he can, and it's clear to me that he wants me to succeed and be happy. But with George it's like a Jekyll-hide thing. Sometimes I can't even believe my wonderful boyfriend could swap so quickly. When he asked for a pre-nup, I understood. His ex stole everything he owned and left him homeless for months. When he gets nervous and withdrawn in response to my stress, I get it. His dad was abusive whenever something stressful happened. And maybe it's just my own anxiety, but things are starting to get precarious for me.

About once every two weeks he asks me if I'm cheating. His ex cheated on him multiple times. Sometimes he just randomly asks, are you cheating? And I've been patient because I understand. how anxiety can be. I make sure to always show him who I'm texting and Snapchating, and I let him answer my texts when he hears the tone, and see my call logs. Other times it gets more serious. Some months ago he announces that he knows I'm cheating, because he found, in the trash, a carryout bag in the remnants of a dinner for two from a restaurant he'd never been to.

I point out that it was from the week prior when I'd gone to a cafe to meet my sister, and I let the leftovers go bad and just threw them out. But it's only after I show him an Instagram picture of the meal and a pick of me and my sister from the same place that he believes me. Another time, he says he knows, he uses that word, I'm cheating because he saw a picture on Meet Me of Me in my underwear in somebody else's house. I ask him to show me the picture, and he says it's already been deleted, and admits it was just from the shoulders down.

I invite him to look at every piece of underwear that I own to see if it looked familiar. He admitted, after searching, that the woman had been wearing a black bra, and he remembered I don't own one of those because I like white shirts and they always show underneath. After he remembered, he calmed down. This last time was the most serious of all. I've been stressed due to midterms this past week, and I've been non-stop studying in the library. I always study in the same place, buy a window in the library, and he's come along and brought me food and helped me study.

When I'm stressed, I can get pretty withdrawn, especially when I've got a lot to do. I noticed he was getting more and more nervous about it, which accumulated, I thought, in my accidentally spilling water off my nightstand and swearing up a storm. I said over and over again that it had nothing to do with him, nothing was directed at him, he wasn't even in the room at the time, but he accused me of taking out my stress on him. After that he was extremely withdrawn and moody. The next day I was boxing things up to send back home to my parents, and I hear music suddenly blaring from the kitchen and I find George in their cooking dinner,

which is something we always do together. I'm in a good mood and I try to join him but he doesn't let me. He keeps saying that I need to stop being rude to him. I had apologized for every wrong he cited against me, but he maintained that he was just tired of my behavior and, in my mind, it felt like he was deliberately holding on to those past wrongs. This eventually leads to a pretty huge fight, where I shouted him that he's making my life hell right now on top of all my other stress, and he calls me a cunt and a stupid bitch. I respond by calling him a childish asshole. He runs out the door to go by Sigs down the block, and I leave too, and head back to the library. I stay there until 2 a.m., studying. When I get home, the first thing I notice is that the front window

is shattered. This scares the shit out of me. George has thrown things and broken things, before, never at me, never my stuff, so I was afraid of what kind of mood he was in. I go inside and he's still awake, waiting for me. I don't say anything to him, it's very late, I'm tired, and I have an exam in the morning, so I take a shower to help me sleep. I change into my PJs and prepare a bed on the couch, because I don't want to be near him. As I'm settling in, he walks in and demands to know why there's fresh comb on my panties. I can't even believe what I'm hearing. He shows me my panties, and it's so ridiculous, because he knows I've been dealing with a yeast infection these past few days, which causes white discharge and requires whitish medication.

The stuff on my panties is so obviously not comb, but he absolutely believes it is. So we fight. I bring up the yeast infection and he seems to realize that I'm right because he immediately abandons that argument and switches to how I've been disrespecting him this past week, and he won't stand for it anymore. I ask how I've been disrespecting him. He brings up how I didn't walk him out of the library the times he's joined me there. I point out that he always needs to leave before I'm done studying, so I want to stay and keep studying, and I think that's reasonable. He says I'm ungrateful for his bringing me food and flashcards in the library. I say that I do remember thanking him, and he finally admits that he's grasping at straws,

but that he does feel disrespected. I say that it's his anxiety, and I ask him to please realize that, I try to remind him that we're best friends and we love each other, and I would never do anything to try and hurt him, but he snidly tells me to go talk to my therapist about it. He doesn't believe in therapy. He won't stop yelling until I hide under the covers,

plug my ears, and start crying. Then he shouts that I'm not a victim and leaves me alone finally, but my anxiety keeps me up all night, and I end up failing one of my tests the next day because I'm so tired and my eyes are so grainy from crying. By the next afternoon we're back on speaking terms. He admits that he knew there wasn't coma my panties, because he drove by the library a few times and saw me studying there in the window where I always study. I feel very nervous about this because I realize that even with definitive proof,

with his own eyes, that I didn't do anything wrong, he still went ahead and accused me. Recently we watched horns together, and I mentioned that I thought it was unrealistic how the best friend became a psychopath out of nowhere. I thought, given they'd known him his whole life, there would have been some signs that indicated he was crazy, and his friends would have had a hunch. George said he wasn't surprised, he said that he believed anyone could snap and become a rapist slash murderer out of nowhere, and people could hide their true intentions no matter how well you think you know them. He cited the time his sister-in-law, married to his abusive brother, tried to strangle him out of nowhere. I know he's very distrustful of everyone, so I understand why he said that,

but still, it made me afraid. The last few days have been so difficult for me. I already feel very sick to my stomach with nerves. I brought up what he said about horns, and kind of half-jokingly asked if he was going to kill me. He says no, but that he does sometimes imagine. He says, but that he does sometimes punching me in the face. I tell him I sometimes think of punching him, too, but I would never actually do that, and he should never do that either because I will leave. He just laughs and says he won't, and I think the conversation is over, except he suddenly says, if you cheated on me, I think I'd be angry enough to try and kill you, and probably succeed. I respond by saying I would probably be angry enough to kill him if he cheated, but I wouldn't actually hurt him. He doesn't really have a

response for that. Yesterday he said it again. I mentioned how one of my friends and her now husband went celibate for their entire engagement period, one year. He casually responds, that sounds horrible. I think if I had to go more than two weeks without segs I'd probably freak out and kill you. This made my stomach do a flip-flop because it was the second time in two days. I say something like you know I won't be able to have segs for like six weeks after I give birth, right? Even if it's caesarian, because I need to recover from surgery. He doesn't say anything and that freaks me the fuck out, so I press him, you know that, right? And he says, well, it's going to be tough. Things are spiraling out of control for me. I know I often don't think straight because of my gad,

but I'm not happy with how things are going. I want to tell him not to accuse me of cheating anymore, that I've more than proven myself to him, and that we can't fight like this anymore, and he needs to needs to stop saying anything about killing me because even if he's joking it makes me sick to my stomach. But now I'm a little afraid that if I pick a fight about this, he's going to think that I'm cheating and trying to cover it up somehow. Further, I'm worried that if I can't account for every minute we're apart, like cameras following me everywhere, then one day, if my phone dies, or if I get stuck in traffic, or if some male coworker greets me inappropriately against my will, George will believe I'm cheating and possibly kill me.

Update, the last few days have been very hard overall. I haven't got much sleep. I was way too busy driving and moving and planning and running and life decision-making and crying and pretending to be normal. My worldly possessions have been reduced down to what I could stuff into my old cross-country duffel bag. My dogs are traumatized to the point that one of them is now fear-biting and cries whenever I'm not in direct contact with her, and the other is exploding talk to her.

and the other is exploding toxic waste out of both ends. And I'm simply no longer recognizable as the person I was, physically and mentally. Never in a million years did I think I'd end up in this place. Everything was pulled right out from under me, and it's like I woke up in someone else's fucked up life. But I'm alive, and that cancels out any of my irrelevant complaints. Last week, I got back from the hospital after a really nasty stomach bug, which I thought was the flu. I collapsed on the couch to sweat it out. I was in a lot of pain, but I'd still drag myself to the store to get ginger ale and sports drinks

because I didn't want to ask George to do it for me. I realized I needed to appease him however I could until I could figure out a plan, because the Reddit responses scared me and I decided I needed to get away. As soon as I got home, George poured me a glass of orange juice and told me to drink until I threw up. I explained the doctor's orders, but he insisted that enough orange juice would make me throw up or give me diarrhea and that would flush my system and get the toxins out. As unpleasant as throwing up, again, sounded, because I was really dizzy and weak, I decided to try the orange juice.

All it did was burn my scratched up throat and it didn't help settle my stomach, so I stopped drinking it and started drinking ginger ale. He got seriously annoyed by that and kept insisting I drink the orange juice. I told him that it burned my throat and he said, well, your throat's just going to burn anyways. No idea what that meant. He then asks me where my phone is. Apparently he wanted to put on some music. I have no idea where it is, but as he starts a full-on investigation for it,

I remember I'd had my post open on the Reddit as fun app at the hospital, but I had a mild fever and I couldn't remember whether or not I had closed it. A few people warned me what might happen if he saw my post and all those warnings jumped right to the front of my mind. I've been in some pretty intense situations before, but I've never felt anything like the pure unadulterated terror of lying there waiting to see if my psycho boyfriend would find my phone and find out what I'd written. I thought about trying to find it before he got to it or casually trying to discourage him

from looking, but I knew he'd be suspicious if I suddenly jumped up at the mention of my phone. In fact, I realized that if I reacted at all, he'd be suspicious enough to probably search until he found something incriminating, and it didn't matter how well I covered my tracks. Eventually he'd settle for something to be mad about. So I had to just lie there, pretending not to panic as he dug through my purse, my backpack, my car, twice. Finally he called my phone and there wasn't any ring, and I remembered I'd put it on vibrate in the doctor's office. I thought I was saved for about five seconds, but then he went and turned off the noisy air purifier, so there was absolute silence, and called again, and I could hear my phone vibrating.

He found it in my jacket pocket and I swear to God I've never seen anything more beautiful than my tiny blank home screen reflected in his glasses. He puts on music and shut himself in the computer room. After an hour or so I passed out. When I wake up it's still nighttime and he's sitting across from me drinking a beer and the first thing he says is that apparently his parents are giving away all his childhood things. I guess he called home while I was asleep. I tell him I'm sorry to hear that. I can see he's in a really bad mood, but I'm ill enough and scared enough that I don't care at that moment. I just want to go back to sleep.

He tells me again to drink the orange juice. I explain again about how it burns and doesn't help my stomach like the ginger ale, and he says something like sometimes I think people refuse to do things purposefully because I asked them to. Like maybe I should just tell people to do the opposite of what I want, so they'll actually do something good for themselves. and I really am scared of him, because I don't know what he's going to do to me. So I drank the fucking orange juice and I tried to throw up and that was the absolute worst pain I've experienced in a long time.

It felt like someone stabbed me in the sternum. I actually cried a little and got one of those mini blackouts you get when you sit up too fast in the morning. George was standing there while I wretched in the tub, and at one point he did put his hand on my shoulder and ask if I was okay, but he didn't stick around and wait for me to reggae my composure. He left the bathroom and when I found him again he was on the computer watching videos. He didn't say anything to me the rest of that night, and when I told him good night, he didn't respond. I decide I'm going to wake up early and go straight to my therapist.

I never want to feel that fear or helplessness again, over anything, least of all whether or not I'd closed a stupid app on my phone. As soon as the center is open I go to my therapist for a crisis walk in and I tell him everything. He confirms that George's behavior is troubling. I say I'm scared and that I need help and he gets me in touch with a victims of domestic violence thing that's apparently set up by the university. I hate that all of those words now apply to me and even as I write this I still don't think they're accurate. I don't feel like a victim of domestic violence. But I guess I am. The next 24 hours after I approached my therapist were the most painful, barring Monday, when I had to give up my dogs. The police were called, and I knew there was absolutely

no going back once that happened, because George hated the police and he would never, ever forgive me for telling any of this to my therapist. Believe it or not, I did not want to make life harder for George. I have spent so much of the past foolish years doing everything to make his life easier. I did not want to hurt or punish him. All I wanted was to get away with as little impact as possible, to vanish completely, and go zero contact, to forget everything and not deal with it. So the last thing I wanted was police involvement. Because of the stupendous freakout it would cause, but the domestic violence victim's thing worked in tandem with law enforcement, and I recognized that I wasn't thinking clearly. So I took a huge leap of faith and actually trusted a trained

professional to do his job properly. I was really surprised when a kind-faced woman in a pink blouse stepped into my therapist's office 20 minutes later, introduced herself as a domestic victim advocate, listened sympathetically and non-judgmentally to my sob story, and proceeded to escort me everywhere for the next few hours. She had a gun on her belt and she was an actual trained cop so I felt as safe as someone like me could feel, considering what I was doing. The kindness my advocate showed me was so far beyond anything any stranger has ever expressed towards me in my life. She gave me a chocolate bar off her desk that she'd obviously bought, for herself earlier, offered me her lunch, packed me a to-go bag with water bottles and a can of

dog food for my puppies, and told me sincerely that she wished there was anything she could say to comfort me when she and three other officers walked with me into Maya and Georgia's apartment for the last time. I just told her that I understood. Nothing could really be said because it just sucked, but I was glad she was there. I threw clothes, a few pictures, some papers, my travel toothbrush and my phone charger into a bag and pretty much sobbed more hysterically than I thought any sane person could ever sob. It was very embarrassing, but I couldn't stop. To an outsider with a normal functioning brain who can't understand exactly what it's like to be in my shoes, I probably seemed really weak and pathetic and stupid. But to me, getting out didn't necessarily

feel like a good thing, it felt like a disaster. I was ransacking my own home. George was everything to me, and everything in my body was saying that I was destroying the only real love I'd ever have and betraying my best friend for no reason, especially when I saw a note on the fridge he'd had left for me with a dry erase marker. Dogs poop this morning. They've both been fed and pukes got her medication. Have a great day, honey, I love you. I really wish I would have packed smarter, who the fuck forgets to pack socks. But there were three large intimidating cops waiting on me in my living room, and the victim-advocate lady warned me to hurry because we didn't want George to show up and see this. It was very distressing. I had to leave behind so many things. I know it's all

just worthless junk, but it was my home, things I'd picked special and had for years. The gaming PC I built myself, my dog's toys, my sprouting plants that were so close to blooming, my favorite sunflower pattern dishes. The beautiful wooden bookcase my father made for me in his wood shop when I graduated high school, my old gross dogged Harry Potter books, some of which I've had since I was a little kid, the polka dot comforter my sister handed down to me after she got married. My old birthday and Christmas cards. That stuff made me feel like a person with a life that mattered. But it wouldn't fit in my bag so I had to leave it. And I don't think I'm going to see it again. But it's not the end of the world, I'll go on and hoard a lot more useless junk in the future.

If I had stayed, I wouldn't have been able to, and my junk wouldn't have done my body any good. The dogs were not happy about all the strangers in the house, nor my apparent mental breakdown, and they immediately started losing their minds. I somehow managed to load them and my shit into my car and then it was back to the police station to discuss options. I put off calling my family because I didn't want this to be real, but I figured once George realized some of my shit was gone, it was going to get very real whether or not I felt ready. The call wasn't bad, I've always been able to tell my dad anything and not be judged

or ignored, though I hadn't talked with him for a while. He and my mom were away on a camping trip, but when I told him things were bad and I didn't feel safe, no other details were mentioned. He invited me to join them. It was many hundreds of miles away, in the middle of nowhere, but that sounded perfect just then. Nobody could find me, I'd be totally safe, at least for a few days. So I left town. About three hours into my eight-hour drive, the calls and text started coming. I'd ask the advocate lady what I was supposed to do when George tried to get in touch with me, because for him, this is completely out of nowhere and is likely going to call the police and file a missing person report if I didn't come home that night. She gave me a few cookie-cutter

sentences to give him, which I put into a brief text. It essentially said that I didn't feel safe right now. I wanted space, and I didn't want him to contact me again, I would contact him when I was ready. Then I was stupid and I read the hailstorm of sad texts I got in response to that. Then I was even more stupid and, rather than blocking him, I answered one of his many subsequent calls. It was quick. He sounded scared and heartbroken and I felt bad for him, because I knew he would never understand. He said he was having a panic attack, he didn't understand, please don't do this. All I ever did was love and take care of you, we were supposed to get engaged. I cut him off and said that I didn't feel safe.

I didn't want him to contact me. I couldn't help him. His behavior was unstable and he needed to go to a hospital. He asked me if this had anything to do with my therapist telling me lies. I said no, but he said something like I need to talk to that fucking guy. He needs to stay the fuck out of my relationship. He's messing with my fiancé. Then he asked me if I'd stop taking my anti-anxia.

medication. But I didn't answer and I didn't hear the rest of what he was saying because I just repeated that to him, firmly, all the points I'd already stated, and then hung up and blocked him. I then called my therapist to let him know that he might be in danger. The police got involved again and when George made a threatening call to the center five minutes later, the whole place got put on lockdown. I'm not sure exactly what happened, or what he said, but I think my therapist had to have a cop escort him home and George was told not to contact me, or the center unless he wanted to be arrested. So I endangered a whole building full of wonderful people who have only ever helped me, and deprived others of their therapy sessions that day.

What if somebody else had been in crises and needed help? Just one more thing I can think about when I'm falling asleep at night. My parents aren't touchy-feely but my dad let me hug him and cry on a shoulder for about 30 seconds and then cheerfully pretended like nothing was wrong. He wiped my laptop and phone in case of keyloggers while joking around with me about the dogs in school and unrelated stuff, which is his way of dealing with problems. To be fair, it works really well most of the time. He doesn't like talking about personal issues. In general it makes him uncomfortable, so I spared him a conversation about what happened.

He knew I was safe and getting help and that's all he wanted. My mom was extremely sympathetic. Ports George. She's always liked him and she told me once that he made me normal and. When I mentioned once that I thought he was controlling, she said that I still shouldn't push him away because he was really nice and good for me, and controlling behavior wasn't in itself an issue anyway. I hadn't expected much from her TBAH.

This was the woman who'd abandoned me and parked cars and her friend's empty houses so she could go to work, which she very obviously loves more than her family. To the point of being extremely unhealthy, my dad was at the time. time working all night and sleeping during the day and only changed jobs when I was in my early teens. Also from her came such gems as tampons are for bad non-virgin girls. Note, my mother is a rabbit atheist, so what the fuck? And writing is a hobby not a job, don't waste your time studying that and I've never been surprised that your sister has more friends than you. To my sister she always said I was prettier and skinnier, so nobody won. She grew up in a severely impoverished

third world country, orphaned at 10, and spent most of her adolescence and early 20s married to a hell's angel who tried to stab her when she finally left, so there are huge cultural and lingual and emotional gaps between us. I love and appreciate her, but I generally try not to take her advice. Still, I was really hurt by the whole conversation. She kept mentioning how smart and kind George was, asking for blow-by-blow account of what really happened, suggesting that I got it wrong. Trying to puzzle through his delusions, wishing she could help him, feeling sorry for him and wondering if she could talk to him, maybe convince him get to a hospital. I explained over and over that we couldn't help

because he didn't believe there was a problem, and even if he did go into treatment, I wasn't going to risk going back. She really wanted me to stick with him and support him through these troubling times. To me and my situation, she said, I'm glad you weren't killed. Literally. That's it. I had to get back to my life. I was warned the place they were putting me didn't allow pets. My parents were busy and couldn't take my dogs, so I ended up having to think about whether or not I could afford to kennel them until graduation, or if it would be easier on them if I found them new homes.

I'm selfish enough that I didn't entertain rehoming them for long. I did not want to lose my dogs. I could lose everything else, but if I lost them I'd die. They were my babies, they used to sleep in my bed before George kicked them out, and they were the only ones whom I could cuddle and cry on during this whole nightmare. They were my strongest emotional support. So I swallowed my pride and called Sarah, a friend I've known for a couple years now.

I haven't kept up contact all that well because with George it's just easier to have as few relationships as possible to avoid anyone texting me too often or mentioning anything that he could be suspicious about. She was glad to hear from me. I asked if she knew anyone who could take my dogs for a day or two until I figured out where to keep them. She called a friend of hers who agreed to take them.

Then she asked if everything was okay. I thought about lying, but I figured I owed her the truth, or at least a part of it. I said things were really up in the air right now and I'd have to fill her in later. My roommate got almost no notice that somebody was going to be moving in. My advocate moved really quickly

and wanted me out of my situation ASAP, so by the time my roommate knew, I'd already unloaded all of my garbage in her personal space. I taped a Butterfingers and a friendly little note to her bedroom door and I fully intend to bribe her not to be pissed later by leaving booze in the fridge and letting her know she's welcome to it. She's out of town herself right now, so I haven't met her yet, but she seems nice. I saw Game of Thrones magnets on the fridge so there's one icebreaker I've got.

I then changed a few more things to make myself feel safer walking around in the streets. There's no chance George knows where I am or how to find me, but still. I hope this stun gun doesn't go off randomly in my pocket. I managed to find a kennel I felt comfortable with. They had grassy playpens with shallow swimming pools and fountains, and they provided the dogs with enrichment and fluffy beds. I absolutely kid you not, this place looks better than some daycares I've seen. It was astronomically expensive, but I figured if I was going to use up my rainy day fund on something,

it should be something that would reduce the amount of lifelong trauma my dogs were experiencing. When I went to check my dogs into their temporary new home, I found out that the girl Sarah referred me to had to get up in the middle of the night to take one of them out several times. Vomit and diarrhea everywhere. Which made me feel horrible. I forced $30 on her and arranged to have flowers send over as a sincere apology for the hell I put her through. Then I gave up my dogs.

I can still see them during the day but it broke my heart into pieces to let them go. Sarah met up with me later, and I told her what happened. Like my parents, she really isn't touchy-feely so there was no crying or hugging or any of that nonsense. She gave me shit for being with George, did I knew he was a psycho, I was going to tell you off before because you were always crying about him and shit, but I figured you were a grown woman and had your shit together damn. And then went on to say that I should have called her way earlier. and she liked the changes I'd made to my appearance so far, but I should avoid wearing bright colors

from now on. She takes off her dark color jacket and gives it to me right there. Then she goes on to describe all the ways how my situation was exactly like JLO's in the 2002 movie enough, reads me the whole synopsis off Wikipedia and makes plans for us to get smashed and watch it together. I told her I've decided to avoid alcohol for the near future since I'm already dancing on the edge of depression, but I said I'd still show up and bring popcorn balls. Other than how annoyed she was at me over my bad decisions, I couldn't have asked for a better friend. For a little while at least, she made me feel human. Later that night my dad informed me that George had left him and my mother a threatening message on their public business line. The only way I can think that he got that

number was by Googling their names. I immediately took the necessary steps to file for a restraining order. The only reason I'm writing this is because I have no idea how to make sense of my life right now except to write it down, and more importantly, I've really got nobody else to talk to. When I was a kid, I'd do a lot of journaling to help me get through difficult times. I figure this is the same, only sometimes the journal says encouraging things back. And I'm not going to lie, I could use some encouragement. So I'm just going to dump it all anonymously here, and maybe that will give me some kind of closure, maybe not. I have nothing else to do because I can't bear to leave this room right now.

Also, I feel I owe it to a bunch of internet strangers to say thank you properly, and let you know what's happened. Some of you seem truly upset by my situation, and some took quite a large chunk of their time to write to me. So thank you, really, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Because I'm a real girl behind these words, I like sewing my own dresses and watching David Attenborough documentaries and wasting hours of my life on PC games. I like gardening and fantasy books. I struggled through serious depression and GAD and eating disorders that left me very weak but very grateful for my life, so I believed, I am a real breathing person who is very naive and very vulnerable and you random people saved my life. Honestly, I only ever come on here to

look at screenshots of elderly people struggling to use Facebook. I thought the internet was full of Machiavellian teenagers who'd probably tell me how bitchy I sounded. Thanks, genuinely, to everyone who answered my post and everyone who sent me a PM. I've sat and I've read each and every one of them multiple times. I reread them when I start to feel like I've overreacted, like maybe I'm crazy. I reread them when I start to think about ever reconciling with George, or feeling guilty about what I've done. I've printed out my original post and every comment I've gotten, yes, even you in danger girl. and I put them in my journal and I continue to look at them. Even though none of you guys actually knew me, you cared.

And some of you cared quite a lot. You offered me your stories, or someone to talk to, or a place to stay, a book, a phone number to call. Most of you were more concerned about me than my mother. Because I was seriously in danger. I was. There were things I never thought would be affected by my being with George, my dogs, my possessions, the safety of the people around me. I was lonely enough to get myself into that position. And I actually do want to live so I realize I've got to change, too. There's a lot of work to be

done. Maybe George isn't an evil guy, but I'm going to stop describing him as a wonderful person. I don't believe people are good or evil, but the stuff he was doing was definitely evil. The more I look back on it, the more I realized how much stuff I let happen to my life and body that I should not have tolerated. And the absolute fuckfest I've endured has made me slowly start to admit that to myself. I can't explain my reasons for staying with them so long because they aren't logical.

He spent years slowly building up to some of the things he did, and it was easy to forgive him after every seemingly small incident because I didn't look at the big picture, and I thought I was in love. George is a highly intelligent, gorgeous, funny, inspiring, ambitious and charming man, the kind of man I fully believed was way out of my league. He is often very thoughtful and we clicked in a level I'd never experienced before.

He does charity work in the community, has created methods for improving the world in concrete ways both environmentally and socially, mostly concerning the homeless because he was homeless for a while, and he would bend over backwards to help a friend in need. The Segs was amazing when I wanted it. On the surface, he was perfect. being with him often gave me butterflies. But he is sick. And he's sick in a way that I can't fix. Over the years I lost the ability to understand what was okay and what wasn't.

I fought along the way, I even occasionally left, but he always drew me back in. He made me feel special and loved, he said I was an irreplaceable extension of himself, and for a girl who'd never thought of herself as irreplaceable, it seemed to make up for all the bad. I've since learned that this kind of stuff is common. I'm going to try my hardest to educate myself and change how I approach relationships, because I now understand that I'm just as sick as George, although in a different way, and if I don't do anything about it, I'll likely end up with another George somewhere down the road. I've ordered the following books and I intend to read them and to continue therapy

so that this never happens to me again. Why does he do that? Lundy Bancroft the gift of fear, Gavin De Becker Safe People, Dr. Henry Cloud, Dr. John Townsend the Science of Trust, John M. Gottman daring greatly, Breen Brown these are just a few that were suggested to me, by you and my therapist. If you have other suggestions that have helped you or someone you know, through a situation like mine, please let me know. In the past few days I've felt a huge upwelling of pure gratefulness for being alive. There's still a lot of things. I need to deal with, but I've got a lot of support moving forward. Along with a victim advocate, my university provides free legal counsel. So I think I'm going to be okay. Booked Dog Feelings Update. All right guys check your spelling because all this shit's going in the scrapbook. You think I'm kidding?

You see if I'm kidding. I love you guys and it's seriously like this and hear for me reading your responses. I've just started pelting people with upvotes in lieu of a thousand thank yous because I really I am so grateful for your encouragement and your kind words. This has made my life. Also, a few people have mentioned the possibility of poison, so I thought I'd let you know I'm going to the docks tomorrow to see if there's any chance of that, but I'm stable, I think. And there's no evidence of damage thus far. Hopefully the orange juice thing was just a weird power play and not something more sinister.