Fresh out of college, I wanted to spend a few months with my friend, soaking up the sun and languishing in each day before the real life began. We chose Tenerife, a place with tourism all year round. The initial weeks were blissful; we settled in quickly, found an apartment and jobs, and enjoyed the sun, sea, and meeting new people. I worked as a coordinator at a hotel, often interacting closely with the restaurant staff. I became part of their community, spending evenings together, sharing laughter and wine. Among them, one person stood out – let’s call him Juan. He made me feel special, important, like I was the most beautiful person alive. I was enchanted by his attention, and life felt wonderful. I spent more and more time with him, distancing myself from my friend who had found love elsewhere. Eventually, living in the apartment felt pointless since I spent most nights in his small house on the hill overlooking the sea. So, I moved in. That was the first step toward darkness..
With subtle tactics, Juan made me believe I needed to try harder to earn his attention, that I wasn't good enough. I couldn't be too friendly with others; it wasn't fair to him if I flirted, although that was never my intention. I stopped. He found more and more things that I did slightly wrong, and there was always a hint of truth in what he said, making it difficult not to take it seriously. Countless times, I questioned how I could accept what was happening, how I became the person I did. Somehow, I believed him; he was incredibly skilled at pushing all the right buttons.
I adapted more and more, eventually seeing no one but him. My family and friends were far away. Juan convinced me to sever myself from the friend who remained on the island. All my ties were severed.
The psychological abuse was the horrible. He made me feel like the worst person on Earth, and when I tried to stand up for myself, he ignored me or walked past me in the house, looking right through me. That was one of the worst feelings – being utterly ignored. I felt unseen. At times, I questioned if I even existed. To make him notice me, I did anything, standing in front of him, waving my arms, shouting, pushing. And when I pushed, he pushed back, usually shoving me to the floor and holding me down until I could barely breathe. Yet, that feeling was better than not existing at all. Physical pain became a relief, proof that I was alive.
As the months passed, the intensity of his abuse grew. He kicked me while I was on the ground, making sure not to hit my face too often. His favorite phrase was that I should be grateful he put up with me because no one else ever would. And I believed him. Of course, no one else could tolerate me. I started every argument, got in his way, my fault entirely.
Often, as I lay on the floor, he would say he couldn't bear me anymore and leave. I'd panic. Without him, I was nothing. So, I did anything to make him stay – grabbing his leg, licking his shoes. There was no limit to what I did. He almost always left anyway. When he returned home, he could be remorseful, professing his love, saying I needed to be better so he wouldn't have to act the way he did. I promised. Again and again. And I failed. Again and again.
One day, the abuse became worse than ever. Juan wanted to leave, but I had hidden his car keys because I didn't want him to go. He hit and kicked me until everything turned black. I stayed on the floor after he found his keys and left. The next day, when I saw my bruised face, I decided to go into town. I wanted someone to see. I wanted someone to do something. But no one saw. No one did anything. A few days later, his sister visited. My bruises were still prominent. She said nothing. No one said anything. That's when I decided to end my life. I saw no other way out. I didn't dare go home to my family; Juan had taken my passport and tried to burn it. Even if I found it, I didn't know how I could handle getting on a plane or face my family feeling like the worthless being I believed I was. I had no strength left.
So, I went to the pharmacy and bought all the sleeping pills I could find. When I got home, I locked myself in the bedroom and swallowed them all at once. As my body began to numb, I wondered if I would regret it. I didn't. It seemed to be my only way out. Or so I thought. Fortunately, the pills weren't strong enough. It wasn't my way out; instead, it became a turning point because I realized I had to escape. And I eventually did. And when I finally arrived in Sweden, life turned around, day by day, step by step. I met people who helped me see that he was the one who was sick. They helped rebuild me.
This is my story, from twenty years ago. The scars are still there. If I could have shared what I was going through, understood that I wasn't alone, maybe I could have escaped earlier. I hope the project The Way Out can give others hope and support.
Help is available.
You are not alone.
- Stina Willquist