When I was 23 years old I dated two men at once. One taught me how I should be treated and the other taught me just the opposite. I regret neither relationship.
I met Noel first and he was everything I thought I wanted in a partner. He was smart, nice, and interesting and seemed to genuinely like me and care about what I had to say. We had a great first date: We ate brunch at a place he used to work. The food was really good. I remember that I ate avocado toast. He told me about his childhood. He said he grew up in Europe and moved to New York to become an actor about a year prior. I remember thinking he was really, really cute. As lame as it feels to say now, after the first date I honestly thought that may have been it. I thought I met the love of my life. I kissed him on the first the date.
The next day, Sunday, I met up with him in a park downtown. We walked through the neighborhood to which he would soon move. He showed me his new building; we had tea on the stoop. We then went back to his current apartment. I slept with him on the second date.
We spent nearly every day that week together. He made me feel special and he made me feel loved. I couldn’t believe that it had only been a week.
That Friday, Noel invited me to a party at a bar. We had a great few hours together, but suddenly he vanished. Then I met Leon. He was just like Noel is many ways. They looked alike. They spoke alike. Leon had had a lot to drink by the time we met — so much that he immediately became belligerent and told me way more information than I cared to know at that point. He said he had a bit of drinking problem, a problem that ran in his family, and also that he had been hospitalized back home after having a mental breakdown a few years back. I know that everyone has a past and try to approach every situation with an open mind and heart. I’ve also had my fair share of struggles with my own mental health and felt compelled to care for this person.
I took Leon home because I already knew where he lived: He shared an apartment with Noel. This is because they were the same person. Technically, anyway. Emotionally, and especially with the assistance of alcohol, this man alternated rapidly between two very different people: one with whom I was falling in love with and one who terrified me.
The next morning when we woke up Noel was back and Leon was nowhere to be found.
“Do you remember last night?” I asked him.
“Sure, I remember the party, why?”
“You just got pretty drunk. You got really sad and angry at me at one point.” He looked scared but not surprised.
“I must have blacked out. I’m so sorry. It’ll never happen again.”
In retrospect, it was way too early in the relationship for me to believe something would never happen again, but I was really growing fond of this guy and wanted desperately for it to work out.
We continued dating. When he was Noel, he was the perfect boyfriend. He made me feel like a princess. When he wasn’t, it was a completely different story. The faster he drank the faster he transformed into Leon, and the more he drank the meaner and scarier he was.
One night he got so drunk and angry that we were dismissed from a bar. In the cab home, he grabbed my wrist and squeezed to the point where it hurt. He tore a hole in my tights and began touching my crotch. I begged him to stop.
“You’re drunk, we’re in a cab, I just want to go home,” I kept saying. But he wouldn’t stop.
We arrived at his apartment where he threw me against the bed, ripped off his clothes, then mine, and forced himself on me. I struggled to push him off of me but I wasn’t strong enough. I kept begging for him to stop but he wouldn’t. We finished and went to sleep. It wasn’t until months later that I have even been able to admit what happened that night to myself, let alone anyone else: My boyfriend raped me.
These visits from his alter ego didn’t stop, as much as I wished they would. I didn’t want to leave him because I thought I’d feel like a coward. Mostly, though, I simply didn’t want out of the relationship. I thought I was helping him by staying. I thought I was helping myself by trying to make the relationship work.
Then one night my best friend and I met up with him and his sister. They had both already started drinking and I could tell something was off but prayed we wouldn’t have a visit from Leon. Noel appeared more manic than he normally is when sober, but didn’t seem to be in a bad mood. When his sister left the three of us alone, though, he proceeded to get increasingly more intoxicated and increasingly less himself.
This was the first night he told me that he loved me, which is normally a momentous occasion. This was no exception: it was also the night that we broke up.
I said the words back as quickly as he had spoken them, but then he switched. He stormed out of the restaurant. I chased after him but he screamed at me, telling me not to hurt him. He wanted to get another drink. I knew this was a bad idea but he was so out of control I let him go. My friend and I watched as he ran across the street and fell to the ground. We ran after him and insisted we take him back to my apartment, but he continued to fight back; screaming, crying, pushing both of us. We finally got him in a cab and then I knew I had to end things. I couldn’t go on like this.
I felt really guilty about breaking up with him for months. We met up a couple times afterwards. He said things like “You promised you weren’t going anywhere,” or “How did the night I told you I loved you transform into you breaking up with me?”
It’s been months now, but I’ve finally learned that it wasn’t my responsibility to save him or protect him from getting hurt. I was putting myself in danger by trying to do so. I was in a physically and emotionally abusive relationship and I didn’t even realize it until well after we broke up.
I think it is really important that we don’t excuse any abusive or unstable behavior from our partners, no matter what other struggles they are dealing with in their life. The unfortunate truth is there are so many people in this country and around the world who struggle with mental illness. We may think we can help or “save” them, but no matter the situation it’s okay — and, in fact, necessary — to put your own health and safety first.
Of course, accepting this is easier said than done. In fact, doing so has been harder for me than anything else. But it’s also been the best thing I’ve ever done for myself.
To learn more about abusive relationships or to get help, visit Love Is Respect or the National Domestic Violence Hotline.