Collin Willis

Writing has always been a great source of therapy for me. It got me through teenage angst and heartbreak, the loss of loved ones, and plenty of life’s challenges along the way. It has been a while since I’ve given a personal update like this one, but today’s is a little different. Before I’ve chosen to share job updates, life goals, and all sorts of big picture changes. Today, however, I’d like to do something more personal. Today I’d like to be vulnerable and to openly tell my side of a story that I’ve intentionally kept quiet on for some time.

After moving down to Orlando last year I got into a relationship. What started off electric and magnetic devolved into the most toxic and abusive relationship of my life. I spent four months being suffocated and controlled by an extreme narcissist, and I have spent the three months since dealing with the consequences of separating myself from that individual against her will. The ordeal has utterly consumed me from top to bottom.

In ending the relationship I thought I had found freedom, only to find the grip of her hands around my throat tightening beyond what I believed possible. I write this post not to out this person, but to grapple with my own feelings of guilt and disappointment at what happened. I kept my story quiet because I thought it was the right thing to do. However, hindsight is 20/20 and I am choosing to come forward with what happened to me. Hopefully, this will be an honest self-discussion of mental health and how I continue to recover from the painful trauma of what unfolded.

One Great Big Spark

I’ve only considered myself to be in love twice in my life. The first was a malformed love that was more obsession than it was genuine inter-connection during my high school years. The second was with the person this post pertains to. On our first date I felt something I’d never felt before. It was the electricity that I’d always heard my parents and grandparents talk about, an indistinguishable feeling that something special was truly in motion. It was so strong that I texted my sister immediately afterwards with the message “this might be one to meet mom and dad.”, which is not something I’ve ever felt so immediately compelled to say before. From that first date I was hooked and determined to chase that spark until its end.

The Frog in the Boiling Pot

There’s a reason you’re supposed to wear goggles around sparks. If you stare too long the spark might burn itself into your vision permanently. Where you should see shades of blues and greens in the world around you, you only see the blinding yellow remnant of the spark that is in actuality no longer there. In staring at the emotional spark I didn’t notice the boiling pot I had jumped into. I didn’t question when she began to find issues with all my friends, issues which slowly turned into reasons why I couldn’t spend time with them, issues which slowly became the reasons why I wasn’t free to spend time with anyone but her. And when she’d bar me from someone and asked if I thought she was being too controlling, I said no. How could someone be controlling if they’re asking me permission to be so?

I didn’t care when “don’t spend time with them” turned into “why would you even talk to them?”. I didn’t notice the bubbles rushing to the surface of the water until I was already drenched in sweat. It became common place for me not to seek out friendship with others because she surprisingly had a reason why they all weren’t permissible. It’s funny how many of the friends I had to promise not to spend time with without her present, the friends she’d trash talk to me any time I made a case for them, are the same ones she ran to once I ended the relationship.

I didn’t pay attention to the warning signs when they were merely warnings because I didn’t want to. I knew what I felt, I knew what I wanted, and I didn’t take heed of anything that warned me that the spark was too bright and that it had blinded me from maintaining a healthy social life.

Losing Yourself

As my social life began to wane and friendships were pushed to the side to make more and more space for the relationship, I began to lose myself in the process too. I forgot what it meant to spend time alone, what it was like to engage with the hobbies and activities I enjoy. I stopped reading, I stopped writing, I stopped playing the piano. I stopped going to church. All of these were distractions from the constant demand of attention that she had. If I didn’t reply within 15min I was sure to be attacked for “not caring about her” or “ignoring her”. It didn’t matter how much I replied, how many times we saw each other, or the energy I gave her when I didn’t have any energy to spare, it was never enough. The relationship became a black hole, sucking in everything that I was or had to give.

The only solace I had was the movies, where I could truly escape from my phone and that relationship for a few hours at a time. Even that place lost its protection of solace eventually, and she even accused me of doing things behind her back because one of the friends she’d cut me off from happened to be in the same 1,000 seat showing of a movie as me. She of course found this out by keeping tabs on my location. It didn’t matter that I’d told her my plans for the day or that two floors separated me from this former friend, I was in the vicinity of someone she sought to keep me away from and that was all the fuel she needed. I missed the first hour of the next movie trying to calm down the scenarios of infidelity that she had built in her head.

Dreading Every Sunrise

I wish that day at the movies had been a rare exception, a case of anxiety gone too far. The truth is that almost everyday ended in an episode like this. As valid as her anxiety and panic attacks were and are, the way she treated me on the other side of them was not. I spent countless nights consoling her, holding her, and trying as best I knew how to help her navigate these. Then there were the nights when all I would do was cry because it didn’t matter what I said or what I did to try and calm her down, all that would happen would be her escalation of the situation.

Our relationship was marked by her “rules for thee but not for me”. She could spend time with some of the people I was barred from. She could spend time with anyone of the opposite sex without feeling a torrent of rageful jealousy. She chastised me for trying to buy her things but then would surprise me with a gift and make me feel bad for not having something in return. She could ask for space or a time out mid one of her assaults, but if I tried to retreat or ask for the same I was made to feel like I was ignoring her. I told her how uncomfortable it made me discussing relationship problems at work; so she would corner me on the clock or when I was heading to break and get upset if I didn’t pick up the fight.

I wasn’t allowed to ask for space, I wasn’t allowed to fight back. Anything that I needed was irrelevant, because if it wasn’t catering to her ego, it wasn’t helpful. She needed someone to take it out on, and night after night it was me. I spent every day in fear of the moment something would set her off. It might be something I said, it might be something she saw on social media, it might be something someone else did. It didn’t matter what it was, because everyday it would come and the familiar accusations would come hurling toward me. When she finally realized that I was hurt, she’d calm down and throw “I’m sorry’s” and “it’ll get betters” at me.

I fell into that trap every night because one bad night didn’t seem like reason enough to end what had also produced so many sparks and happy moments. It didn’t matter how many times I was attacked, I blindly believed that tomorrow would be attack free. Then I’d wake up and spend all day dreading the moment it would happen again. It would happen with a harsh text message when we were apart. It would happen with a sudden silence in the room when we were together. It would happen in the hallways at work where she’d corner me and get upset if I didn’t stay there to fight it out. It happened time after time and day after day. It became the most constant thing in my life.

“I must work harder.”

I watched her handle every conflict this same way. It didn’t matter if it was with me, with a coworker, with her roommates, or with her friends. She’d escalate a situation until she got hurt and the other person would end up apologizing to her for her own actions. And she’d go about telling any and everyone (and I do mean everyone) about the horrible things that person had done to her and why they couldn’t be her friend or be a decent human being and still associate with them. I watched her do it to several people in our time together and I feared the day she’d do it to me too. I’ve never met a person less forgiving. There was no room in her life for anyone or anything that didn’t feed her own self-delusions. If you chose not to do that then you were belittled and shamed until you either apologized to her just to end it; or gave up and cut your losses entirely.

I have a hard time accepting defeat. When it came to this individual, I was determined that I could make it better, that eventually she’d reach a change of heart and the use of me as a punching bag would stop. I internalized our fights and duped myself with the idea that if I just worked a little harder, if I gave her just a smidge more attention, devoted myself a little bit further, that I could heal her hurt. As much as she demanded of me, I am the one who chose to feed back into it. I wanted to prove that I could take the hits, as if I were serving some militaristic duty to be at her beck and call. I’m not a fighter and most nights it was easier just to take the hits and apologize, even so far as to apologize for the breakup of another couple who reminded her of us.

She holds everyone to a much higher standard than she will ever hold herself and I backed away from the challenge. I didn’t stand up for my friends who didn’t meet her standard, I didn’t stand up for myself for not meeting her standard, and I didn’t hold her accountable for failing to meet the levels of decency that others bent over backwards to meet for her. I could not heal her, I couldn’t even heal myself.

Not Strong Enough

My self esteem and self care dwindled for months as did my mental health. I wasn’t engaging with the things that filled my soul, and on top of being worked six days a week by a certain mouse company, I was spending every free moment serving this person’s ego and manipulative behavior. She’d ask me to choose different words and respond in different ways so as to avoid her triggers. I’d adapt my behavior every time, but the moment I asked for space or told her how her words were hurting me she’d find reason after reason why I was wrong for feeling that way. She’d hide behind her panic attacks and “well I’ve been told to say it this way” without the slightest consideration for how I was hurt by her actions just as easily as she could be mine.

It got so bad that one night on the phone I couldn’t talk for five minutes because I could not quit crying. I was trapped, unable to retreat, unable to engage, unable to do anything but take blow after blow. After this night she made slightly more effort to be nicer and the “you don’t care about me’s” stopped for a time, but before too long it was back to the same old same old. When I finally found the courage to save myself from this relationship, I let her false promises keep me rooted to it. My eyes were still struck by that spark and I couldn’t see clearly enough the warning signs I felt in my heart. I didn’t have the strength to follow through on breaking up with her and the relationship that was killing me continued on. I thought by staying together I could save us from further pain, but in the end it just created pain compounded.

Petersburg

When I went to my sister’s wedding in Alaska, this girl and I set ground rules for communication. I don’t like feeling disengaged from time with family and cell signal was non-existent anytime we were in the wilderness of the island. So I set expectations for when and how much I could talk. She’d say it was fine if I couldn’t talk for a while, but if more than 15min passed without a text back the familiar accusations would surface again. I was forced to choose between being present with my loved ones or being sucked in to an argument I was never going to win. I missed the entirety of my brother in law’s bachelor party because I answered one text too quickly and another text not quickly enough. I was in the room with family, but my mind and heart were in a blender several thousand miles away.

I told myself she’d have one more chance to get better, to treat me with the same respect I tried to treat her. During that trip I gave her one more chance a dozen times over. It killed me. I came home depressed, having felt like I missed out on quality time with family I no longer get to see much. I came home beaten down by a storm cloud that I knew was not going away. It was this that became the final straw in the relationship. I took a day to weigh my options and come to peace with what I knew needed to happen, and I ended it officially the next day after I returned to Orlando. I thought that I would have time to heal, but the pain and downward spiral had hardly begun.

Rules of Disengagement

When our relationship ended she made me promise that I wouldn’t tell our mutual friends that we’d split. She made me promise that I would pretend like we were still together; and when she was ready to admit to the split, that we were still friends. I promised that when the news had broken that I wouldn’t trash her or speak openly about what happened. I told two of my closest friends in minor detail just to get feedback and encouragement in my self-induced depression. I kept things cordial, I spoke no ill or exposed none of what she had put me through, I did what I thought was the right thing to do. I kept the promises I gave to her.

For a few days this worked fine, she and I even communicated in an attempt to find closure from one another. Then as all situations with her did, this began to escalate. She walked back on the permanency of our breakup, forcing me to have to say the words I hated saying for the third time. She began to walk back from the apologies she had given me, she tried to flip the reasons I’d given her why she was hurting me back on me. The scales tilted until she had convinced herself that she’d done no wrong and I simply wasn’t giving her enough. She began to renege on the promises we’d made over how to handle our breakup. She began to do the things she’d asked me not to. One night she took it too far. The same attacks came but louder, more vicious, and in 65 consecutive text messages.

That night I made the decision to block her number. She then tried to call me via Facebook so I blocked her there too. She then DMed me on Instagram and I blocked her there too. That night broke me because it was the night I finally acknowledged defeat. I couldn’t take all the punches. I couldn’t find strength enough for the both of us. But I had done the one thing she didn’t expect, I’d walked away and taken what power I thought she had over me. And it didn’t make me feel better, it made me feel like a failure and I still wrestle with the guilt of having given up on her in this moment. Little did I know though that the punches had just begun and her reach could stretch far beyond direct contact.

Blacklisted

After taking another trip back home, I returned to Orlando and work the next week where I found that people who had been friends now made it a point to be strangers. Some people wouldn’t even look at me. She had done to me what I’d seen her do to her roommate and several other coworkers before. She took every opportunity she had to accuse me of the things she’d done. “I was manipulative, I gaslit her, I didn’t care about her.” The girl that I had sacrificed all of me for made me promise to keep quiet so that she could define the narrative.

In my week long absence she began a targeted campaign of harassment that continues to this day. She threatened people who were friends to me. She confronted people who even did so much as speak to me. She ensured that everyone fell into one of two camps; the people who believed her spin, and the people too intimidated to do anything but oblige her. She would do this when I was gone and then try to smile and joke around with me whenever our paths crossed. It messed with my brain and broke my heart that she could be so cruel as to strike me with one hand and feign reassurance with the other.

So it didn’t matter that my actions don’t fit her narrative, because passivity and avoidance of being harassed by her were enough for most people to accept her narrative and move on. I kept my mouth shut, I didn’t tell my story because I thought it was the right thing to do. And just like everything in our relationship I did for her at the expense of myself. I lost friends, tears, and lots of sleep over this breakup. I lost the respect of people whose opinions I take to heart. I lost the ability to feel welcomed into that work environment for some time.

Things have gotten better in the months since, but the echoes of her abuse still drone in my ears like a tinnitus I can’t get rid of. I still hear rumors spread about me and accusations about how I used her and passed her panic attacks off as silly little outbursts. I see people look me in the eyes and smile while they trash me relentlessly behind my back. I see friendships I’ll never be able to restore because I chose not to speak up for myself and risk hurting her further. I gave myself up into the hands of someone who abused and manipulated me, who suffocated me, isolated me, and used me as a crutch to serve her own narcissism and psychopathy. I thought that in staying quiet people would ask me what was up and trust the character that I had shown. I chose not to stand up for myself or be assertive about what had happened and I paid the price for it. I’ve felt guilty because I know she can’t always control the state that her triggers put her in and it makes it easy to pass off her behavior towards me. At the same time, I know that there’s a fine line between how we feel and how we choose to react to those feelings and she chose to take them out on me.

I’m Gonna Love Me Again

Her words sunk deep, and the damage she’s done to me both through her own actions and the ways she has isolated me from so many former friends have rocked me to my core. My mental health has been lower than it has been in a long time, as I have wallowed and taken blow after blow from something that should have been over months ago. This relationship caused me to lose touch with and stop loving myself. It has been a slow road back to remembering what it feels like to love myself.

In the fallout of this relationship I stopped doing the things that filled my soul. I stopped engaging with my creative outlets. I stopped engaging with the people I worked with. The world around me became dull and I became numb within it. It took me several months to realize just how much of a ghost I had become in my retreat.

I’ve been in therapy for a few months now unpacking the trauma that this relationship wreaked and learning how to better equip myself in the future. In the absence of the demand to give constant attention I’ve found myself writing again, latching onto new projects and ideas in a way that I haven’t for quite some time. I’ve deepened the friendships I do have, making sure to prioritize them and make the effort I didn’t feel permitted to make before. I’ve been re-engaging with my hobbies and trying to kill everyone with kindness as best I know how.

Yet in the midst of all this healing there has been one hole, the feeling that I never stood up for what happened to me. In the beginning, I didn’t want to start a spin war and resort to mud slinging, but it was fear of that engagement that prevented me from standing up for myself at all. It was telling my story that could have nipped this in the bud months before it dragged me to the state it did. That brings me to this post, something I write for two reasons. One, to confront that which has emaciated me over the past few months. Two, to do what I should have done all along; to tell my story.

Tell My Story

I write this recognizing that women face this kind of abuse much more frequently than men, and I knew that as this was unfolding that my story would be significantly challenged because of this. Women have an unbelievably harder time speaking up in most circumstances and because this girl refuses to be anything but the victim, it was never going to be easy to tell my story. It is especially harder to do so now that so much time has passed with her version being the only narrative. She doesn’t have to prove anything or have any real claims, all she had to do to win the court of public opinion was to point the finger. I don’t blame anyone for believing it, I don’t blame anyone for not wanting to get involved, they were doing what in most cases would be the only right thing to do. The fault isn’t on her, it’s not on people who sided with her, it is on me for not showing agency on my own behalf.

At the end of the day, it won’t matter how many hundreds texts I have from her that validate what I went through. It won’t matter how many people have witnessed first hand the extremes of her behavior. This post might not accomplish anything. It probably won’t earn any of my friends back. It won’t distill the rumors. It may not do anything, but it will give me the chance to stand up for myself. With this post comes the peace that I have told my story, even if it is too late. This is my story and it needed to be told. The trials and tribulations of this chapter have been heartbreaking to say the least, but I have faith that the chapters yet to come will be much brighter. I come out of this with wounded pride and heart, but confident that I can be better and love myself enough to grow beyond this type of behavior, not just from her but from anyone in my future.

This is the story I have been ashamed of, that I have feared telling, and that has caused me great pain to keep inside. This is the reason why I disconnected and discontented for so many of these recent months. This is my story and I’m telling it because I’ve decided to care enough about myself to make it known.