Trigger warning: This article contains accounts of domestic violence.

The timeline is blurred, but the results are the same.

In 2013, I took in a stray. This stray came in the form of a house-hopping, shaggy haired guitarist who I worked with serving tables. I was in nursing school and admired his “didn’t-give-a-damn” attitude and lack of obligations to anyone but himself. The fact that he came to work with a fractured arm after a fight with his own father failed to raise any red flags as we grew closer.

The slew of reasons I shouldn’t have dated him go far beyond the actual crux of our downfall, and hardly make a difference in my story. The bruises he left, however, are the reason I’m telling you now, because in a society of “me toos” and women suffering domestic abuse silently, sometimes even one small voice can matter.

The…