When Love Isn’t Love: Unlearning the Lies That Kept Me Silent

If I go all the way back to the beginning, love—at least the version I came to know—looked a lot like independence.

By the time I was two, I knew how to get myself dressed, pour a bowl of cereal, and fire up the Nintendo or a VHS tape. I can’t say for sure whether there were adults around, and if there were, they were often behind a locked bedroom door. I was taught, without words, not to disturb them. Mornings were quiet. Lonely. And mine to manage.

By five, I’d become the manager of more than just my own morning routine. Like many eldest daughters, I took on responsibilities too big for small shoulders. I cared for my younger sister. I soothed her cries, fixed her food, got her dressed—because if she cried and there were adults nearby, their reaction could be worse than the silence. If they weren’t there, we were still on our own. Either way, I learned how to lie early. I lied to protect her. I lied to protect myself. I lied to smooth over the truth, because the truth always seemed to make things worse.

That kind of love—heavy, complicated, survival-based—was the only version I knew. And like all children do, I clung to it.

At 18, I met someone. I hadn’t told him much of my story, but somehow, he made me feel seen. Within six months, we were living together. A few more months, and we owned a house. It felt like a dream—but even then, there were cracks I didn’t want to name.

At 19, just one week before our wedding, I asked why he had been drinking. He pushed me onto the bed, choked me, and called me a “dumb cunt.” That moment should’ve stopped everything. But I was still telling myself a version of love that had room for pain.

At 20, I realized the problem wasn’t just alcohol. He walked into our closet door one night and urinated on it. Later, I’d learn Xanax was in the mix.

At 21, seven months pregnant, I was pushed against a wall and tackled for my phone—for texting his mom. He was afraid I might be telling the truth.

Between 22 and 24, I left him three times. I also came back three times. Each time, I’d clean up the mess—empty liquor bottles, trash, broken things and broken promises. He lost jobs. Failed drug tests. Lied. I did everything I could to believe in the good I thought I saw in him.

I leaned on people who reminded me: this wasn’t okay. But I stayed. I convinced myself I wasn’t trying hard enough. That maybe if I loved him better, he’d change.

I went to therapy. Read every relationship book I could find. Listened to podcasts. I tried to rewire myself. But still, most nights ended the same—with me on the floor of our living room, sobbing, begging to be seen, to be loved back.

His struggles didn’t make me angry; they made me more compassionate. I saw a wounded person in need of healing. I thought my love could offer that.

At 25, on the surface, it looked like I was living the dream. We’d built a beautiful home. I was advancing in my career. I felt confident, healthy. But at home, he wasn’t working again. He was staying out late, taking off for days without explanation. When I asked him not to drink at his Christmas party, he left me crying on the floor. When he came back, hours later and still drunk, I was still there—curled up, in tears. He screamed at me. I shut down. The next thing I remember is paramedics asking if I had been drinking.

I hadn’t.

A week later, he came home high again. This time, it was undeniable. A drug test confirmed everything. I asked him to leave.

He told people it was just a break. Said we were working things out. Meanwhile, he ignored every request I made to sit down and discuss divorce. He started telling others that I was the one struggling with mental health, that I had become unstable. He showed up at events without me, finally doing the things I’d begged him to do for years—now that I was no longer by his side.

He sent flowers. Coffee. Candy. Performed what looked like love. But never once did he acknowledge the truth. Never once did he say: “I hurt you. I understand. Let’s part with honesty.”

Until I stopped waiting. I stopped pleading. I stepped outside the marriage. I lied. I found a version of love that didn’t feel like punishment.

And that was the moment he finally agreed to the divorce.

Not because he accepted responsibility. But because now he had a way to cast himself as the victim. He used my actions to slander me, harass me, and tell a story that finally made sense to him.

That’s when it hit me.

I’d been gaslighting myself for years just to survive.

I confused control with care. Manipulation with passion. Dependency with devotion.

And I know now:

This is not love.

Love is not begging someone to stop hurting you.
Love is not carrying someone else’s weight until you lose your own footing.
Love is not disappearing to make room for someone else's dysfunction.
Love is not covering up harm to protect a relationship that’s already destroying you.

Real love doesn’t make you lie to yourself.

Real love holds space. It shows up. It tells the truth. It heals without hurting.

And the biggest truth I’ve learned?

You don’t have to earn love by suffering for it.

Author’s Note:

If you found pieces of your story reflected in mine, please know—you are not alone, and what you’re experiencing is not your fault. Abuse can take many forms: physical, emotional, verbal, financial, and psychological. It can be confusing, especially when it’s wrapped in moments that look like love. But real love doesn’t ask you to abandon yourself to keep it.

If you or someone you care about is in an unsafe or unhealthy relationship, there are resources available—they are bound by confidentially and without judgment:

• National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 or thehotline.org (24/7 chat available)

• Love is Respect (especially for young people): loveisrespect.org

• StrongHearts Native Helpline (for Native communities): 1-844-762-8483 or strongheartshelpline.org

• Local advocacy centers and shelters often offer help with safety planning, legal advocacy, housing, and counseling. You deserve to be safe and supported.

It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to leave. It’s okay to heal.
You are worthy of a love that doesn’t hurt.

With deep respect and solidarity,
Ramona Benson