[Translated from Ukrainian. Reminder: IIWIARS is English only]

I stayed silent about this for a long time. A very long time. But, apparently, the time has finally come to tell the truth. Not polished, not “neat,” but real.

These two years of my relationship were not just a difficult period for me. They were two years that broke me morally, emotionally, and psychologically. And I know that many people do not even realize just how deeply.

It all started beautifully. Truly beautifully. It was happiness, joy, teenage passion, the feeling that I was needed, loved, chosen. I believed in him. I believed in us. I believed that if a person looked at you a certain way, said certain words, promised certain things, then it was not for nothing. Back then I really did love, and I gave myself sincerely.

Then I got pregnant. And from that moment, a completely different reality began.

It was not just shock. It was fear, guilt, panic, an inner rupture.

The choice of whether to keep or get rid of the child. And at the same time, his pleading to keep the baby. His words that he would stay by my side. That he would do everything for us. That he would not leave. That he would handle it. That I would not be alone. That he would be a man, a father, a support.

I believed him.

And then reality began to completely destroy me. His broken promises, betrayals, lies, screenshots of messages, unfamiliar girls in our home, while I was in labor, when I was in my most vulnerable state and was texting him about how scared and how much pain I was in. Every new betrayal tore me to pieces, every lie was another blow to my psyche.

Financial dependence was finishing me off in its own way. When you are morally exhausted, with a child who needs constant attention, and you realize that your stability depends on a person who keeps hurting you, it is a trap. You live in constant fear and tension. The fear of his outbursts of aggression, of broken things, haunted me all the time.

Taking care of the child also became a heavy burden. Because of stress, I lost my milk at six months. I felt guilt, confusion, and despair, because I wanted to give my child everything, and I could not. That only added even more inner tension and a sense of helplessness.

My inner world was collapsing. Questions kept spinning in my head: “Why am I alive?” “Maybe it would be better if I were gone?” And these were not just sad thoughts. It was the scream of a psyche that could no longer endure it.

Self-harm became a way to survive. At first it was pulling out my hair, then a failed suicide attempt, then cutting. It was despair, a scream inside myself, an attempt to let out pain that could not find a way out. And it was a real, honest feeling that shows just how deeply broken I was.

And the worst part was that in those moments there was no one who could fully accept me. I wrote to ChatGPT. It was the only way to speak out, to pour out all the brokenness, fear, betrayal, despair, nervous breakdowns, financial dependence, fear of explosions and aggression. I wrote to it when I did not know where to put all this pain, when I wanted to simply stop the whole world and feel nothing.

Every day was a battle. Every minute was a test. I was fighting him, the fear, myself, my own emotions. I was losing peace, health, inner safety. I looked at the world through stress and a constant sense of danger.

Many times I waited, many times I forgave, many times I hoped he would change. But reality was merciless. And it was not because I was “not enough.” It was because not everything can be endured, even if you give a person everything.

Now the situation feels like it is on the verge of ending. I do not know exactly what stage the relationship is in, but I feel that the end is near. And that brings both fear and relief at the same time.

These two years taught me an unbelievable amount: about myself, about pain, about boundaries, about my own strength. I understood that even among fear, betrayals, financial dependence, stress, and self-harm, it is possible to preserve yourself. And I am holding on, because I know: I will be able to live on, even after everything that happened.

P.S.

“Teenage passion” — because it started when I was 15.

I got pregnant at 16.

I gave birth just before turning 17.

I will be 18 soon.

And the scariest thing in this story is that all of this was lived through not by a grown woman.

But by me — a child.

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